


The Ones Who Have Gone Over

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A planned day off goes to hell when the boys are abducted by a doomsday cult, who use Dean in a brutal ritual sacrifice that nearly kills him. Sam struggles to help his brother heal in the aftermath of the attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Graphic crucifixion, brutal whipping, perversions of religious themes by a cult leader, general cult related themes.
> 
> Takes place late Season 2. Written for spn_gen_bigbang. The absolutely amazing art by amber1960 can be found here:  
> http://amber1960.livejournal.com/105910.html

Sam took the lead as they headed up the ridge. Dean didn’t complain, or even seem to notice, which was exactly why Sam wanted to be in front. A lot of the ground was barren, with only sand and volcanic rocks shifting beneath his boots, but they were pushing through low sagebrush and dried grasses perfect for concealing rattlesnakes.

Dean was a lot less distant than he had been. Sam had been sure he was losing his brother after everything with Dad, but now that there were no more secrets, Dean was almost Dean again. For once, Dean was just too relaxed to focus on what was in front of him.

Sam couldn’t help but smile as he glanced back at his brother. Dean’s expression was easy with an edge of curiosity as his eyes scanned the landscape. A sheen of sweat moistened his skin. The ridges of his cheeks and nose were rosy from the sun beating down during the long hike.

They should have kept driving until the day cooled, but Sam had mentioned the Diamond Craters volcanic field while they’d been speeding down the Columbia Gorge. He’d been thoughtlessly rambling about local geography assuming Dean wasn’t listening anyway, but Dean had been listening enough to drive over to tour the Bonneville Dam and then had demanded volcanoes.

“This looks even less like the Grand Canyon than that sissy-ass gorge did,” Dean said.

Sam stopped at the top of the ridge, squinting against the hot sun. Mountains rose in the distance and nothing but hills and crater-pocketed desert plains lay between them and the visible horizon. It was probably why Dean had finally let his guard down. No one was here but them and this was the last place on earth the FBI would come looking.

The wind whipped up around them, hot and desiccating. Sam ran a hand through his hair, which was heavy with sweat and wiped his brow dry. He pulled out his canteen and chugged down some of the lukewarm water before passing it to Dean.

“For someone who’s never seen the Grand Canyon, you sure know a lot about what it looks like,” Sam said as he set down his day pack.

“That’s the miracle of television. Seen it in real Technicolor and everything.” Dean leaned over to sneak a peek into Sam’s bag. “You better have a decent snack in there.”

Sam did have plenty of food and water and a first aid kit and a book for when Dean passed out in the shade later like Sam knew he would. Between hunts and evading the FBI, they’d been going non-stop for weeks.

Dean was good at pretending he wasn’t tired, enough that he probably even convinced himself, but once they were somewhere safe, he let go. Dean’s quiet snoring had always been an indicator to Sam that things were okay.

“Where are these frickin’ volcanoes you promised me anyway?” Dean asked.

Sam snorted. “You’re on top of one.”

They were surrounded by them, standing on the edge of an eroded dome, looking down into a collapsed crater. To Sam, the volcanic signs were obvious from the basalt rock formations to the fissures cracking the ground and the ancient lava flow they’d passed on the hike up, but Dean was probably looking for a giant cone spewing molten lava.

Dean scratched his head as he stared down into the crater. “This thing isn’t gonna blow up in our face, is it?”

Sam couldn’t tell if it was a joke, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Dean was serious, given his brother’s tendency to see threats everywhere. Even if it was a real question, Dean couldn’t actually have been that concerned because he was already heading down the ridge towards the crater.

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm, stopping his descent. Eruption wasn’t a threat from the extinct volcano, but weakened areas of decaying rock were. He hadn’t led Dean out here just to have him fall through a fissure he didn’t know to watch out for.

“That’s not the crater I want to show you,” Sam said.

Dean twisted free of Sam’s grip before following his gaze to the far side of the ridge. The view was obscured by a rocky outcropping, but when they walked twenty feet further, a patch of bright green vegetation came into view. It was another crater, set low enough to have collected what little rainwater fell in the area. Over time, it had become a lake in the middle of the desert.

The sky’s blue reflection rippled in the water, mirroring the desolate landscape around them. Dean didn’t take time to reflect on the marvels of geography that had brought the picturesque oasis into existence. Before Sam had even looked back up, Dean was scrambling down the rocky slope.

Sam snatched his pack and scurried to keep up with his brother. He might have a longer stride, but Dean was more agile, not that Sam would ever admit it aloud.

The unofficial race was on as they half-ran, half-slid down the hill, kicking up dirt and starting a mini-avalanche of tumbling basalt. Sam wanted to tell Dean to watch his footing, not because he thought Dean was going to hurt himself, but because he might damage an ancient rock formation. That urge was squelched by the joy of watching his brother run, not because there was some demon on his tail, but just for the hell of it.

Sam skidded to a stop, almost slamming into Dean, as his brother froze at the edge of the green grass. They were both panting as they stood staring towards the water. Only Sam realized a moment later that Dean wasn’t looking at the water at all.

He expected to see a snake, but when Dean crouched down he inspected the grass blades themselves. Sam remained silent, knowing that Dean had picked up on a threat, but not knowing where or what it was.

“Someone’s been here,” Dean said.

Sam would have burst out laughing if he hadn’t considered the implications of Dean’s paranoia. Even dropping Dean in the middle of the high desert wasn’t enough to allow him to completely let go.

Sam would just have to prove to him that sometimes it really was all right to let his guard down. Despite what Dad had raised them to think, there wasn’t always a monster waiting around the next corner.

“Yeah, Dean, a lot of people have been here.”

There was no one else in sight and no sounds but the wind rushing over the terrain. The location was isolated, but it was still a tourist attraction.

“Do you think I used remote viewing to find this spot?” Sam asked. He shoved Dean forward through the hiker-created trail in the high grass. “It was on the internet.”

His hand was on Dean’s shoulder so he could feel the moment the tension eased away. Dean walked forward on his own, barely making it to the pond’s edge before peeling off his sweat-drenched T-shirt and tossing it aside.

“You’re going to need this,” Sam said as he dug into his pack.

Dean’s face scrunched when he looked down at Sam’s hand. “Sunscreen? Dude, I already put that slop on.”

“Back in Portland,” Sam said. “And you’ve been sweating like a pig.”

“You’re the pig.”

“Says the guy who ate two entire plates at breakfast.” Sam shoved the bottle at Dean. “Just put it on. I don’t want to listen to you cry all night about your back being on fire.”

“I don’t cry.” Dean snatched the sunscreen from Sam’s hand. “But you’d cry too if you didn’t have that freakish tanning skin.”

Sam rolled his eyes. When they’d been little, Dean’s hair had been blond and his freckles had stood out like stars in a dark night sky, but even then he’d sworn he didn’t have fair skin. Clearly, Sam being a superhuman freak made far more sense as to why Dean burned and Sam didn’t. Of course, in a way, Dean had turned out to be right, at least about the inhuman freak part.

“The only thing that hurts right now is this stupid-ass tattoo,” Dean said, as he smeared sunscreen around the skin that couldn’t actually still be tender.

Dean had finally convinced Sam that Meg’s possession had been a demon problem, and not directly an issue of what Sam was. Dean had been content to leave it at that and to just hang on to Bobby’s protective charm. But Dean had lost his. Twice.

Dean didn’t know what it was like to see suffering being inflicted by his own hands and being unable to stop it. Sam was determined to make sure that Dean never did know and, even more importantly, that a demon could never again use him to hurt Dean or anyone else.

Ironically enough, they had Meg to thank for having found the sigil for the tattoos. The book that had contained the full details on the binding link Meg had branded into Sam’s skin to keep herself in had likewise described how to keep demons out.

It had been perfect, or at least Sam had thought so. Dean, on the other hand, had nothing but complaints. He’d bitched that he’d have to make up a story about it for every girl he slept with, as if lying was suddenly hard for Dean. Sam sold him on girls liking bad-boy tattoos, but then Dean had grumbled that everyone already thought they were gay without them having matching tattoos.

Despite his words, Dean had never said no, making most of his points while driving them to the tattoo parlor. He’d known how important it was to Sam, but accepting it didn’t stop the griping. The artist who had done the work was a hunter and had been thorough about the ink application. It had hurt, but not like having your gut torn open by a monster and Dean never complained about that.

Dean finished covering his arms and chest with sunscreen before turning around and holding out the bottle. Sam took it from him and squeezed a pile into his hands. He rubbed it over Dean’s back far more thoroughly than Dean had bothered to.

His hand hesitated over a healing line of gashes that had been torn into Dean’s side during a hunt several weeks earlier and the yellowing bruise that covered most of his left shoulder. He wasn’t even sure which of the times Dean had been thrown had caused it, but more visible than the discolored skin was the still-red scar tissue from the bullet shot by Sam’s own hand.

Dean had waited until three days after they’d gotten rid of Meg to tell him about it. He only had then because Sam had found him hiding in the bathroom changing bloody bandages after a hunt had ripped the wound open again. Dean hadn’t wanted to tell him about the shooting because he thought Sam would use it as further proof that he was a danger to Dean and everyone else he touched.

Dean had been right, but by that point Sam had seen how much his constant urging for Dean to stop him was breaking his brother down. It wouldn’t change what Dean would do so he’d let it drop.

Sam jumped when Dean elbowed him in the gut.

“I know you wish you had this baby soft skin,” Dean said. “But if you don’t get your touchy-feely girly hands off me I will kick your ass.”

“Just a second.”

Sam lifted the strap to Dean’s amulet and rubbed another handful of sunscreen over the nape of his neck where the skin was already burning, a stark contrast to the skin that had been protected by his shirt.

Dean squirmed, swiping at the back of his neck. “Dude, you use too much of that crap.”

“You don’t use enough. Have you even read the bottle?”

“No one but you has read the damn bottle,” Dean said. “This stuff doesn’t work anyway.”

Sam smeared a glop over Dean’s nose before snapping the cap back on. “Because you don’t use enough.”

Dean took a swing at him, but was too distracted with rubbing the sunscreen off his nose to put any effort into the punch. “It’s all slimy,” Dean whined.

It never ceased to amaze Sam that his brother could go from unshakably stoic to a petulant two year old and back again in the blink of an eye. He was back to something resembling an adult by the time he finished smearing the sunscreen into his cheeks.

“You happy now?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head as he returned the bottle to his pack. “You’ll thank me later.”

“No, later I’m finding you a chick to feel up.”

Sam wasn’t fast enough to jump back before Dean wiped the last of the sunscreen from his hands onto Sam’s shirt, leaving a greasy smear. He opened his mouth to tell Dean off, but had to look away first.

Dean was unbuttoning his jeans and a moment later tossed them aside with his boxers. Sam heard the quiet splashing when Dean slipped into the lake. He looked back at the sound of Dean’s content sigh as he settled down into the water.

Dean splashed a wave at the shore that Sam barely managed to avoid. “Get in here, Sammy.”

“I though you didn’t want anyone seeing our tattoos together.”

“Damn straight,” Dean said. “You already ruin my pickups because everyone thinks you’re my girlfriend, but there’s no one here.”

“Did you miss the part about this being a tourist area?”

Dean swam out before turning back towards Sam. He smirked as he casually treaded water. “I heard you and I’m hoping the next tourist to stumble by is over eighteen and hot as hell. So yeah, on second thought, you hide in the grass so your ugly ass face doesn’t scare her off.”

Sam shook his head and settled down at the edge of the water. “Is it actually cool?”

“Cooler than that rock you’re baking on.”

Sam’s hand barely touched the water before a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. When he turned, he didn’t see anything, but heard the crunching of brittle rocks beneath boots.

“Dean, someone’s coming.”

“Is she cute?”

Sam stood and listened. He could now clearly hear multiple sets of footsteps approaching, but still couldn’t pinpoint exactly where they were coming from until he saw a group of men appear from behind the nearest jagged rock wall.

“If you like beards,” Sam said.

Dean nearly choked on the water he’d tipped his head back into. He must have seen how close they were then because he stayed in the water without trying to get dressed.

The men were approaching too quickly to be on a leisurely walk. It tugged at Sam’s nerves even though he and Dean had run down here themselves. Sam took a deep breath. Like he’d told Dean, not everyone was out to get them.

There wasn’t any other water in the area and this feature was on all the area’s tourist maps. That still didn’t explain why the group was heading directly towards them when there was plenty of room on the other side of the crater.

“You need some help?” Sam called out to them.

They stopped at the edge of the grass, looking past Sam to Dean, who had come as close as he could to the shore and still be waist-deep in the water. The first thing Sam noticed was the expression on their faces. They were blank, silently evaluating in a way that sent a chill down Sam’s spine.

He stepped forward to put himself in between those cold stares and his brother. He squared his stance and leveled his gaze with theirs, forcing them to look at him. They barely regarded him before turning to each other to speak in hushed whispers Sam couldn’t make out over the wind.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked.

Sam kept his eyes forward, but could feel his brother directly behind him, ready to leave the water and fight at a moment’s notice. Five of the six men were sturdily built and looked capable of posing a threat, even if they were only human.

The sixth man, who appeared to be leading the group, took a step forward to separate himself from the others. He was older, with graying shoulder-length hair. His right hand played thoughtfully through the waves of his beard while the left tapped rhythmically at the top of his walking stick.

The thick, gnarled wood was polished to a shine. Given that the man’s balance seemed fine, it looked like the staff was more for show than necessity.

“Father Daniel, is it him?” one of the men asked.

The question was directed towards the man with the staff and had an odd ring of reverence. Daniel was watching the water, watching Dean, but the others were all looking to Daniel expectantly.

Dean rubbed his hand through his wet hair. He looked over his shoulder as if searching the crater for the source of Daniel’s focus before he settled his sights back on the older man.

“You’re gonna have to at least buy me dinner if you wanna keep staring at me like that,” Dean said.

Although his gaze remained steady on Dean, when Daniel replied, he was clearly speaking to the men gathered behind him. “He bears the mark and has already been bathed in the sacred waters.”

Dean looked down at his chest then narrowed his gaze on Sam. “I told you these tattoos were gonna be trouble.” Dean shifted his focus back to Daniel and gestured towards his chest. “This isn’t a mark. It’s just my brother’s stupid idea of—”

Daniel resumed talking as if he couldn’t even hear Dean. “He’ll be strong enough to survive the Rising.” He raised his walking stick, pointing it towards them. “Take both in case his soul is too stained to be purified.”

Sam was already prepared when the five younger men rushed forward. Water splashed behind him as Sam swung at the first man. The moment after he hit his target, he shot a glance to the side to make sure Dean was all right.

Dean was back on land with water still rolling off his body as he curled his fists. He scanned for the weakest point in the group and a way to his pants. Sam only had his pocketknife, but Dean had undoubtedly brought his gun.

A fist crashed into Sam’s temple, shooting pain through his skull. Blackness swam over his vision as he heard Dean shout his name. By the time he could focus again, his arms were being tied behind his back.

Blood dripped from Dean’s nose, staining his teeth red as Dean continued to throw wild punches at the remaining men. One lay on the ground, but two others rushed forward and tackled him. Dean hit the rocks hard, but immediately tried to buck the men off as they jerked his arms behind his back.

One man straddled Dean’s hips and held his wrists tight with both hands. The other jammed an elbow between Dean’s shoulder blades while gripping the back of Dean’s neck with his other hand, grinding his face down against the rocks.

Dean’s struggle only ceased when Daniel crouched in front of him. The man holding Dean’s neck released his grip, allowing Daniel to grasp Dean’s chin and force his head up. Dean’s glare was cold enough to freeze hell.

Daniel had to either be an Emmy-winning actor or clinically insane given his lack of reaction to Dean’s silent promise of disembowelment. The man only made some thoughtful sounds before releasing Dean’s bloody cheek and standing back to visually examine the rest of Dean’s body as if he were evaluating a purchase.

“He’s already been fighting the war of heaven’s army,” Daniel said.

Dean looked confused, but Sam knew Daniel was looking at the hunting injuries Dean hadn’t given a second thought. To prove his point, Daniel tapped his walking stick against the claw marks healing on Dean’s side hard enough that Sam heard the thunk.

Dean growled. “That was a gargoyle, not heaven’s army, you douche. Now let us go.”

Dean’s words only seemed to pique Daniel’s interest. He came down beside Dean again, this time kneeling. He placed his hands over the wounds and trailed up over Dean’s exposed torso. Dean went stiff beneath the touch that must have felt as intimate as it looked.

“Get your hands off him!” Sam demanded.

“Many battles.” As Daniel spoke, oblivious to Sam’s shouts, he traced the maze of scars so much a part of Dean's skin even Sam no longer saw them. “This body is weary and ready for rest.”

There was a twinge in Dean’s eyes at the words that clenched Sam’s heart. He knew Dean was tired straight down to his soul. He was tired of fighting and running and losing everything. There was no way to win and no way out, but Sam would be damned before he let these people take what was left of his brother.

Daniel set his hand over Dean’s face. He closed his eyes, taking on a depth of concentration that would have been consistent with a Vulcan mind meld. Dean tried to pull back, but was blocked by the others holding him, forced to lie still as Daniel pressed close.

Sam twisted furiously in the grips that held him. “What are you doing to him?”

Daniel grasped his walking stick and returned to his feet. He looked over the other men and nodded. “Consent has been given.”

“Consent, my ass,” Dean said.

Dean surged up. He flipped the man who had been pinning him, slamming a fist into his nose before scrambling to his feet. When one of the other men darted in, Dean swept his leg out, taking the man to the ground.

“Dean!”

Sam’s warning came too late. Daniel might be older, but he was apparently still physically capable. With a hard swing, he clubbed Dean in the gut with the walking stick before cracking it down over his shoulders.

Dean hit his knees hard, biting back a hoarse cry as the sharp rocks shredded his skin. He doubled over with his arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. He was still struggling to return air to his lungs when Daniel’s boot shoved him forward onto the ground.

They wrestled to keep him down, one of the men leaving Sam’s side to help flip Dean onto his back. Two of them grabbed his legs, pinning his ankles down while the man who had left Sam’s side held down his shoulders. Dean rutted against their hold as his hands were tied in front of him.

“If you bastards touch me, I'll kill you all,” Dean spat.

Daniel did touch him, but only to put his hand over Dean's heart as he began to chant. It was obvious nothing tangible was happening when Dean only raised his brow. Still, those holding him and Dean stood transfixed.

"His energy has been freed,” Daniel said as he stood. “Finish the cleansing.”

They hauled Dean up and dragged him back towards the water. Patches of blood smeared his skin where sharp stones had scraped away flesh. His struggling wasn’t enough to stop them from throwing him backwards into the lake.

Sam thrashed against the hands that held him, crying out for his brother as Dean disappeared beneath the water. All he could see was the splashing from Dean’s kicking legs as he struggled to right himself without the use of his arms.

Terror gripped him as Dean sank from view. This wasn’t a normal lake with gently sloping shores. It was a crater that could have a sheer drop at any point.

The waves had began to settle before Dean came up gasping, barely able to lift his mouth high enough to get in a clear breath. He was trying to move towards shore when two of them men waded out to join him. They took positions on either side of him, and grasped his arms to hold him up out of the water as they chanted.

Sam couldn’t pull himself together enough to translate the words. He could only lock his gaze with Dean’s, seeing his brother edging on panic that he fought to choke down right before the men pushed down, forcing Dean’s head back beneath the water.

“No!” Sam shouted. “Let him up!”

Sam counted the seconds, his own breath still in his chest as he willed them to release Dean. Instead, they held him down until his struggling ceased and the waters were still.

Even when they let him go, Dean didn’t come up on his own. They dragged out his limp body and dropped him down on the shore. He lay sprawled half-in, half-out of the water, the waves from the commotion lapping against his still body. Sam couldn’t see him breathing.

The men on either side of him were as focused on Dean as Sam was, easing their hold enough that he tore free. He shot forward and stumbled to his knees at his brother’s side. His fingers frantically strained against the binds to reach for the pocketknife tucked in his back pocket.

Daniel stood over them. “God is judging his worthiness.”

Sam was sick to his stomach. The look he shot to Daniel was sharp as a dagger. “No, he’s not.”

He knew Dean didn’t believe in God or anything beyond the darkness of this world. Right now, Sam wasn’t sure either. But there was one thing he knew for certain. If there were a god, he wouldn’t have to consider Dean’s worthiness. He’d already know.

Sam hid the knife in his palm as he slid it open and struggled to position it to cut the ropes that held him. He’d just inserted it into the fibers when Dean began to choke. Water sputtered from his pale lips as he turned his head to the side and was overtaken by a hacking cough that made Sam’s own throat hurt.

“It’s okay, Dean. Just breathe.”

Dean still hadn’t opened his eyes. He grimaced as he gagged, but started to take in full breaths of air. At that moment, the men Sam hadn’t seen approaching jerked him away. The knife clattered uselessly to the rocks.

“It’s final,” Daniel said. “He’s been accepted as the gateway for the nephilim’s entry into this world.”

“The nefl...what?” Dean rasped.

Daniel nodded to the other men. “Get him on his feet. The others have been waiting far too long for this day.”

Dean was still on the edge of consciousness when they lifted him, his knees buckling as they tried to stand him up. They patiently waited for him to find his footing. As soon as he was aware enough to stand on his own, the man in front of Dean grasped the loose end of rope that dangled from Dean’s bound wrists and gave it a tug.

Dean grimaced and tried to pull back against the lead. He was looking over his shoulder towards his clothes. Usually Sam would have interpreted it as his brother’s last-ditch effort to get to his gun, but Dean looked disoriented enough Sam wasn’t sure that Dean didn’t just want to get dressed. His eyes were earnest enough that even the man restraining Dean sent a questioning look to Daniel.

“They won’t be needed,” Daniel said. “He’s beyond the physical needs of this world, as we all soon will be.”

“Easy for the guy with boots to say,” Dean grumbled as he was jerked forward.

Given Dean’s condition, Sam had no choice but to let the group lead them along. After a few minutes of attempted questioning, it became painfully clear they weren’t getting any answers about where they were being taken.

He quickly lost track of time and their location. All he could see was Dean wincing with every step he took.

Without his clothes to hide beneath, Dean couldn’t hide how tightly pulled every one of his muscles was. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, licking his lips before again staring blankly ahead.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

Dean shot him a glare. “I’m being dragged buck-ass naked through the desert to see a nefla-whatever. Yeah, this is fucking awesome.”

Sam was well aware how screwed-up this all was. The heat was enough that all Sam wanted to do was lie down and he hadn’t been drowned. Something was really hurting Dean and Sam needed to know what, even if he was only kidding himself thinking there was anything he could do about it.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s fine.” Dean glanced at him before averting his eyes. “It just hurts like a fucking son of bitch.”

Sam followed Dean’s gaze to the ground and the jagged rocks Dean’s feet were being forced to scrape over. Sam gritted his teeth and nodded. “Do you want my boots?”

“No, I want _my_ boots. And my pants. And for one of these goddamn bastards to say something to us!” Dean shouted the last part at one of the men who walked at his side. “This is like that episode of the _Twilight Zone_ where those cat women from Mars enslaved the colonists. Minus the hot chicks, and we sure as hell better not be their new breeders.”

Sam shook his head. Sometimes he wasn’t sure how he and Dean could be the same species, let alone brothers. No matter how ridiculous his choice of conversation, Sam had to keep Dean distracted until he found an opening.

“That’s not a _Twilight Zone_ episode.”

“Sure it is,” Dean said. “We watched it together on New Years.”

Sam gritted his teeth when he realized Dean wasn’t joking. They had watched the marathon together on New Years and when they had, Dean had known every episode. There was no way that Dean with full cognitive abilities intact would seriously attribute some lame porn movie’s plot to the series.

Sam looked closer at his brother. He’d been doing his best not to stare at Dean, given the already compromising situation, but the red flush to Dean’s skin wasn’t necessarily only sunburn. Sam had been assuming his unsteady steps and uneven breathing were from the pain of walking, but while Sam’s shirt clung to him, and sweat he couldn’t brush away ran into his eyes, Dean’s skin had lost its sheen.

“Does your head hurt?” Sam asked.

“Everything does.”

“Like...?”

“You know, even when we’re being dragged off by a bunch of freaks, you’re still a nosey-ass son of a bitch.”

“Dean, I’m serious. Does your stomach hurt?”

“Some bastard slammed his stick into it. What do you think?”

Sam gave a frustrated sigh. It should be next to impossible to be irritated at Dean when his brother was barely holding on, but it didn’t matter what was happening, Dean could still be infuriatingly dense.

“Are you nauseous?” Sam clarified. “Muscle cramps?”

“Maybe we could wait until I’m dressed to play doctor.” Dean stumbled before looking back at Sam. He had that look he got sometimes when he woke up and didn’t know where he was. “You got my clothes?”

Sam tried to count how many times he’d remembered seeing Dean drink on their hike out here. He’d started giving Dean his water when the flask had gone dry. Of course, he’d been assuming the flask had been filled with water.

“Dean, what was in your flask?”

“I don’t have it.”

“I know,” Sam said. “But what was in it?”

“It’s my whiskey flask.” Dean looked at him like he was an idiot. “What do you think’s in it?”

“You were drinking on the hike out?”

Sam shook his head. That explained why Dean had been so obscenely relaxed with an edge of irrational paranoia. It also wasn’t as if Dean had known how long the hike would be and they’d already decided they were sleeping here. Sam wasn’t sure how much further these men planned on leading them, but he knew Dean wouldn’t make it. He was already stumbling more than he was walking.

“Hey,” Sam called up to Daniel. “He needs water and if you don’t get him out of the sun you can forget about your ritual.”

Sam was guessing about what would catch the man’s attention and it must have been the right call. Daniel stopped and turned around. It was the first time he’d acknowledged anything they’d said.

Following Daniel’s lead, the other men also stopped walking and stepped aside from Dean. Without the constant tug of the rope pulling him forward, Dean faltered. He took one more staggered step then collapsed onto his knees, his bound hands barely catching him before his face hit the rocks.

With the bottoms of his feet off the ground, Sam could see that Dean didn’t just have a couple of scratches. His soles were shredded and bloody, compacted with sand and bits of sagebrush.

Daniel set his hand against Dean’s forehead. Dean jerked, blinking before squinting up at the man.

“Who are you?” Dean asked.

With a nod, Daniel motioned to a man carrying a jug of water attached to his belt. “He’s only to have the sacred water.”

Despite how quick the large man had been to beat Dean earlier, his movements were now reverent as he crouched down in front of Dean. He grasped Dean’s chin and set the jug’s opening to his cracked lips.

Dean only took in a couple of gulps before choking. The water spurted from his mouth and dripped back down his chin. Sam wasn’t sure if Dean was actually having trouble swallowing or if he was just too disoriented to know that he wasn’t being drowned again.

“Dean, it’s all right,” Sam said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Just drink it.”

At Sam’s coaxing, Dean opened his eyes. He still looked disoriented, but his thirst and trust in Sam eased him into accepting the offered water. Sam could only hope it was actually water they were giving him.

Even after he drank as much as he was able, Dean didn’t try to stand. He looked like he wanted to lie down and tipped towards the side before the largest man lifted him. Sam knew Dean was out of it when he didn’t even try to fight as the man tossed Dean over his shoulder.

There was a sinking feeling in Sam’s gut as the group continued to lead them on further into the desert. He watched his brother’s arms dangle limply, knowing their chances of getting out alive diminished with every step.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean shifted as consciousness grew nearer. His first thought was that Sam was right. He should have used more sunscreen. His skin felt tight. Even the backs of his thighs throbbed with too much heat.

It took waking further to realize that the backs of his legs shouldn’t have seen any sun. Even if he’d fallen asleep beside the lake, Sam wouldn’t have let him roast just to prove a point.

Dean tried to stretch, only to realize he couldn’t move his arms. They were trapped beneath him. He jerked up, the sharp movement tightening a chain around his neck. Sam’s voice, annoyingly calm with forced bravado, eased him out of panic.

He opened his eyes. They were dry and scratchy and refused to focus. Once they did, he found himself staring down at pavement. He rested his forehead against it and waited for the world to stop spinning.

His head throbbed hard enough that thinking was borderline impossible and his feet felt as if they were on fire. With a deep breath, he took in the smoky air. With the thick scent of lighter fluid and charcoal assaulting his nostrils, he wasn’t sure that his feet weren’t actually resting against a bed of hot coals.

Dean tried to wriggle his fingers and felt nothing. He was half sure his hands were on the barbeque until he lifted his head enough to get a look at his arms beneath him. His entire weight had been resting on them for however long he’d been out. No wonder his fingers were numb.

He tilted his head to the side as far as the chain around his neck would allow and finally saw his brother. Sam was tied to a wood post ten feet away. While he didn’t look injured, his expression was far too worried to be comforting.

Dean looked to the other side and found the source of the smoke. It was exactly what it smelled like. A large group was gathered around a barbeque. Some of them he recognized as the men who had dragged him and Sam here, but there were also women, some young enough they were barely more than just kids.

They were all standing around gawking at his naked ass. Dean turned his head away from the attention and took in the rest of the surroundings. They were still in the desert, but it felt cooler, thanks to the shade of a covered group picnic area. The eyebolt he was chained to was probably for securing the park’s garbage can.

More people sat at picnic tables sipping from paper cups filled with a dark, red liquid. Some were munching on crackers while no doubt awaiting the main course. The bastard with the stick was standing in front of them all, hand-feeding them crackers and preaching on about eating bodies and drinking blood.

“Fucking cannibals,” Dean groaned. “Why do I always gotta be the stuck pig?”

“I don’t think they’re cannibals, Dean.”

Dean turned his head to look back to his brother and quirked a brow. “Really? Because for people who don’t eat people they’re sure talking a lot about eating people.”

“They’re having communion,” Sam said.

“Is that some fertility ritual?”

“Seriously, Dean? If we get out of here, you’re never watching another porn movie.”

“Yeah, you’re laughing now. But if any one of those guys comes near me with a turkey baster, no matter what he’s planning on doing with it, then all I got to say is I told you so. My gut still says horny damn cannibals. I think one of those guys was feeling up my ass.”

Seeing the bottle of red wine sitting at the edge of one of the picnic tables did little to ease Dean’s nerves. Even if they weren’t cannibals, being chained naked to the ground only rarely ended well for him.

“One of them carried you here after you passed out. Then they started the service,” Sam said. “They’re preparing for a ritual.”

Dean was going to have to default to Sam because he couldn’t remember how they’d gotten here or where here was. He sure didn’t remember passing out.

“If they’re planning on using me for their virgin sacrifice, they’re going to be really disappointed.”

The expression on Sam’s face only became grimmer. Slowly everything started to come back to Dean from being drowned at the lake to the whacko babbling about sacred waters and nefli-thingies while feeling him up.

“Holy shit,” Dean muttered. “I am the damn sacrifice, aren’t I?” Sam’s expression was answer enough. “Super. I lived just so I could become a fertility rite. At least we know why they picked me.”

Sam rolled his eyes before the concern settled back over his face. “We’re going to get you out of here, Dean.”

Dean grimaced and sagged back to the ground. “Sure, Sammy.”

His eyes fell on the closest picnic table. They were just kids sitting there. It was the first time he’d looked at any of them. Sam was right. They didn’t look like cannibalistic freaks. They were just people, and as far as he knew, the majority of them were being held here, too.

Metal clanked over by the barbeque. Dean shifted to see several men coming towards him. One carried a pot that had been heating on the grille. The other two knelt beside him, grabbing his legs and holding him down.

“Get the hell off me!”

As soon as he began to struggle, more hands moved in to pin him in place. He couldn’t see the people. He could only feel the fingers digging hard into his tender skin.

When he shot a look over his shoulder, he saw a man leaning over him, spooning boiling paste from the saucepan. The hands holding him pressed him down harder just before the paste was glopped onto his shoulder blades, searing his already hot skin like a brand.

He was still gasping when a hand gripped his jaw, trying to force it open. Dean clamped his mouth closed, struggling to pull away, but an elbow pressed down over his neck, trapping his head with his cheek against the concrete. Strong fingers pinched his nostrils close until his lungs screamed for air and he had to open his mouth to breathe.

His head was twisted further to the side and the ladle shoved in. The thick paste tasted like burnt gym socks and stuck to his mouth like peanut butter. It burnt his tongue, making his eyes water. He instantly tried to spit it out, but a hand clamped over his mouth. He choked it down, leaving his tongue painfully dry and scratchy.

They all stood, gathering around him and began to chant words Dean didn’t understand. He looked to Sam, whose anxious eyes were on the group’s leader. Dean struggled to summon enough saliva to wet his mouth. The words he spoke still grated his throat like sandpaper.

“What are they saying?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said without meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Bullshit.”

Dean gave a frustrated tug to the chain that held him locked in place. He didn’t need Sam’s word-for-word translation to know nothing good was coming.

~~~

_And through the nephilim’s fall shall rise a new world. A world where the righteous of God’s children will be rewarded._

Sam silently translated the words from the recited Latin. Dean was right. Sam did know what they were saying. The earlier incantation had sounded like a summoning ritual, but knowing that wasn’t going to do Dean any good.

Sam twisted his wrists, feeling for any new weaknesses in the bindings. When he couldn’t find one, he continued rubbing the ropes against the corner edge of the wooden post. Sam ignored the pinching of the ropes and the fact he was rubbing off more skin than nylon fibers.

_Claim him, Lord, so that he who has been washed clean of his sins can be an open vessel to take on the sins of this world and be delivered back onto you as your own son was delivered._

He futilely hoped that despite their perfectly spoken Latin the ritual would fail, but he also knew that it didn’t matter if it did.

Sam had been nine when the siege on the Branch Davidian’s compound had ended. He had sat glued to the television watching the buildings burn, transfixed because he hadn’t understood what was happening. When he’d asked Dean, his brother had made it sound simple. Never trust the FBI or anyone who claimed to be doing God’s work.

A few years later, Sam had been watching the Hale-Bopp comet with a Fisher Price Starscope Dean had probably stolen for him. Dean had come out of the motel balcony asking Sam if he could see the UFO in the tail of comet. It wasn’t until Sam had come inside and seen the Heaven’s Gate group’s mass suicide all over the news that he’d realized it was Dean’s defensive sense of humor.

Dean had foregone words of wisdom that time, saying the moral was to never listen to a dude that looked like ET and that people were crazy. Sam understood why Dean hated God, but he still didn't quite understand his issue with humans, not until moments like these.

Sam had done enough of his own research on cults to know that these followers had gathered here today to see a sacrifice. They weren’t going to just let Dean go if the ritual failed. They’d try to kill him regardless.

_Hear us, Lord. Part the flesh of this willing sacrifice, who has been bathed clean of sin in the sacred waters and let free the wings of truth..._

Dean screamed.

Hearing it was like having someone tear out his insides. Sam had put his brother back together enough times to know how bad the pain had to be to rip that strangled sound of agony from Dean.

Sam pushed on harder with his frantic efforts to fray the ropes as he watched Dean’s back arch. His entire body went rigid. No one was near enough to be touching him, but it looked as if he was being electrocuted.

Sam could tell by the distant, glassy look of pain in Dean’s eyes before they squeezed closed that Dean wasn’t aware of anything but the agony that was swallowing him. He began to fight against the chain anchoring his neck, just trying to get away. He was strangling himself in the process.

“Dean!”

He kept trying to call out to his brother, to call Dean back enough to realize what he was doing. No one standing around him was trying to stop Dean from hurting himself. They only continued to chant as he struggled.

Dean soon exhausted himself, collapsing onto the ground and struggling just to suck in air. His eyes were wet when he looked up to Sam before he choked on another scream.

Sam had been so lost in watching his brother’s face, twisted in pain, that he hadn’t looked past to Dean’s back. His shoulders bulged where the paste had been applied. Something was forcing up from beneath his skin.

Sam froze, paralyzed by the sight as sharp edges pushed Dean’s skin beyond its limits. Whatever they had summoned was rupturing straight through his flesh. His back was torn open at each shoulder blade. Blood seeped down his sides as the emerging bulges extended from bloody stumps of mangled bone to lengthen and stretch to as long as Dean was tall.

Dean’s head tilted back in a silent cry, apparently too exhausted to force out sound. Even Sam’s lungs were devoid of air, frozen in the fear that the next spasm could rip his brother apart.

His body had stopped contorting, but as Dean lay on his stomach, growths like porcupine quills emerged from the new bones now covered with pale flesh. They erupted into full feathers, pure white beneath the smears of blood. They were giant wings.

Dean lay his cheek on the ground and his chest heaved. The newly formed wings lay wilted on the blood-splattered ground like a feathery blanket laid around him.

The man with the water jug stood over him. He splashed the water over Dean’s wings, washing away the blood and revealing that the open wounds on Dean’s back had already healed around the wing joints.

Daniel stood over Dean and called over the spectators. Their gasps had quieted and they all stood in awed silence. Sam didn’t listen to the man’s deranged ramblings. Nothing he said was going to help Sam to save his brother.

One by one, the gathered crowd walked over to kneel beside Dean. They ran their hands over his wings, each touch made Dean shiver. The crowd moved in to surround Dean to the point Sam could no longer see his brother.

He couldn’t make out their murmured words, but as they each stood and walked on, each came away clutching a feather. It wasn’t until the crowd thinned again that Sam could see they were each being anointed with a smear of Dean’s blood after tearing a feather from his wing.

Sam could tell by the way each jerk of the feathers twisted Dean’s face that they might as well have been using pliers to tear out his fingernails. His wings were trembling by the time everyone had walked by and taken what they’d wanted.

Dean didn’t even seem to notice when the chain securing him to the ground was unlatched. The man holding it jerked up, choking Dean as he struggled to get his feet beneath him. The heavy wings sagged, tripping him as he tried to stand.

Another jerk of the chain and he was pulled to the nearest picnic table. They bent him forward over the end of it so that his chest lay over the wood slats while his bloody feet remained on the sandy pavement. They pulled his arms from beneath him and tied the rope to the opposite end of the table, stretching his back taut.

When they tried to tie his ankles, Dean kicked back. His bare foot caught the man behind him in the stomach, but it looked like the action hurt Dean far more than the man. The drooping wings fluttered, then banged, flailing as men reached out to grab them.

Over the ruckus, Sam heard the clinking of metal, and then something came down hard over Dean's back. Sam couldn’t see what it was from behind Dean's wings, but it stopped Dean in his tracks. When Dean’s wings dropped enough for Sam to see, his stomach churned.

Dean’s shoulders had been gouged. The whip the man held had sliced clear through his skin. Sam felt sicker as he really looked at the thing. It had multiple tongues of leather, but it wasn’t just a cat o’ nine. The leather straps were knotted with jagged pieces reflective enough to catch the late afternoon sun.

It looked styled after a traditional Roman flagrum. Whether those were shards of metal, glass, or nails worked into the leather, they’d be enough to shred through muscle. With full force applied behind the blow, they’d be enough to kill.

Dean had stopped kicking long enough for them to restrain his legs, lashing each ankle to a leg of the picnic table. Another man came up behind him with a second scourge and stood opposite of the other man.

Dean glanced back at them. He must have put together the pieces because he looked forward again, his chin resting on the rough wood of the picnic table. He took in a deep breath and met Sam’s eyes, nodding before turning his head to the side to hide his face.

Dean was accepting there was no way out, but Sam couldn’t. He couldn’t just stand here tied to a post and watch his brother be flayed to death, not after he’d already come so close to losing him. And so close to finding him again, too.

The first man brought down his whip, slicing into Dean’s back with a sick, wet thud. Blood splattered over the pristine white of the feathers. Dean’s hands curled into fists as the second man brought his scourge down.

The men alternated. Their movements were slow and methodical. Moments of complete stillness were punctuated by the brutal cutting of flesh like they wanted to give time for the pain to sink in.

“Stop this!” Sam demanded. “He’s not what you think he is.”

There were only two men tearing into Dean, but so many stood around watching. They didn’t even know who Dean was or that he’d die for any one of them. Sam knew that despite Dean’s distrust of people, he wouldn’t even blame most of those here.

Most of them were young enough they’d probably been raised into this or hadn’t had anywhere else to go. Dean would care, but Sam didn’t.

Dean gave everyone but himself a free pass, or at least the benefit of the doubt. Sam couldn’t do that because he knew his brother had lost everything, but had still pushed it all aside to raise him. Dean had also been risking his life for others since he was younger than the late teen standing in the front twirling a blood-stained feather she’d ripped from Dean’s wing. Everyone had a choice.

Six strokes in and Deans’ wings pulled up while a scourge was being raised for the seventh lash. It had to be an automatic reflex since Dean couldn’t have figured out how to use the awkward things with everything that was happening. The wings guarded his back, but Dean only screamed louder when the metal gouged into them.

They fluttered in protest enough that there was no way for another lash to be laid. Though, from what Sam could see of Dean’s face, twisted in pain, the flapping and weight of the wings pulling at the gashes already on his back, hurt as much as another stroke would.

Several men came forward to grab his wings, wrestling them down. They focused on one of the wings, pinning it against the seat of the picnic table, feeling for the flesh beneath the feathers.

“No!” Sam shouted.

It didn’t stop the man holding the metal spike over the feathered extension of Dean’s shoulder from bringing down the mallet, hitting it until the spike went through Dean’s wing and into the wood of the table below.

Sam’s own wrists were slick with blood as Dean’s cry hit his ears, and again when they nailed down the second wing, leaving Dean’s brutalized back fully exposed. Dean wasn’t calling for help. He was just too hurt to be able to keep quiet.

Sam continued to rub the heavy ropes and jerk as hard as he could, as if he could pull out the post to get to his brother. If his demon powers were worth a damn, Sam would incinerate everyone here.

As the scourge continued to fall, Dean’s voice became too hoarse to be heard. Sam continued to call out for him and spew unheard threats and pleas as Dean’s blood oozed down his torn sides and dripped through the slats of picnic table.

Dean’s wings pulled at the spikes that restrained them. His entire body trembled as the strokes moved beyond his lower back to slice into the tautly pulled muscles of his rear and the backs of his thighs. Each man took a turn swinging a sharp stroke to gouge the back of Dean’s calves before one of them pulled out a knife. He slit the ropes holding Dean’s legs. Dean didn’t even try to kick out.

They moved to the front of the table. When a scourge was brought down over Dean’s arms, the jagged pieces of metal caught in the wood of the picnic table. Sam swallowed the nausea acidifying his throat. The man jerked the stuck shards from the wood, raking them over Dean’s bloody forearms.

The scourge fell over Dean’s back once more before Daniel stepped forward. He again looked over Dean’s body, which lay still aside from his heaving chest. The man’s hand ran over Dean’s head, fingers carding through his sweaty, blood-splattered hair like he had a right to touch him. The implication of ownership made Sam’s blood run cold.

He could barely make out the full extent of the damage through the tears that blurred his vision. When they untied Dean, jerking the spikes from his wings, he collapsed to the ground in a heap. The wings sprawled around him, smearing with blood where they touched his back.

The leader was talking again, but Sam couldn’t hear him. He could only see the agony carved over Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes were closed, but he was still conscious, still trying to hold up his head. Daniel nudged him with the walking stick.

“Stand to meet your fate,” Daniel ordered.

It was the first time he’d spoken directly to Dean and Dean took notice. He didn’t get up, but he did open his eyes. They were wet when Dean looked up to Daniel, meeting the man’s gaze with a venomous glare before spitting blood at his boots.

“Bite me.”

The words were weak, but there was no questioning the defiance in them. Daniel would have been lucky to have gotten Dean to cooperate even if there was something in it for him, but there wasn’t and Dean knew that. Sam wasn’t even sure that Dean was physically capable of complying.

One of the men still holding a flagrum stepped forward to loom over Dean. His eyes unflinchingly locked with the man’s.

“Do it,” Dean said. His voice was low and his expression quietly challenging.

Sam shook his head. “Dean, don’t.”

Dean only glanced at him before looking back to Daniel. “Not moving.” Dean licked his trembling lips. His gaze fell to the ground. “Not unless you let my brother go.”

“No, Dean...”

The pleading look Dean sent him made Sam’s words catch in his throat.

“The sacrifice is yours alone to make,” Daniel replied. “It’s for him to choose whether or not to seek salvation.”

Dean creased his brow. “Okay...crazy ass son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Just untie him.”

“There can be no interference with the sacrifice.”

“Fine.” Dean took in a ragged breath, the effort of just speaking breaking him down. “Let him go after.”

“There will be no after, not on this plane. This world ends with you. There’s nowhere for him to go that won’t be touched by the flames.”

“Fuck.” Dean shifted in the blood that was pooling around his knees. He curled his fist before releasing a weary sigh. He leaned his head against the picnic table for support. “You gave me wings, but can’t cut some damn rope?”

“You’re asking the impossible,” the man said. “But if any remain, they will release him.”

Dean reached up for the edge of the table, using it as leverage to stand. His muscles began to shake as soon as he forced them to bear weight. The wings drooped, dragging in the blood and draping his body to disguise some of the worst damage. His eyes were glassy and avoiding Sam.

Sam had futilely hoped that Dean had moved past thinking he was expendable. He didn’t seem to get that Dad hadn’t thrown himself into hell just so Dean could throw his own life away, not that the choice here was truly his.

The group would do whatever they were planning regardless of Dean’s supposed consent and Sam would be lying if he’d said he didn’t know what was coming.

He had seen the tall post raised in the ground at the edge of the cliff. He’d even seen the crossbeam next to the picnic table. They’d already hammered spikes into Dean and had a bundle of rope sitting on the ground next to the mallet.

Sam could no longer deny it, but he knew that his brother, whose only run-in with religion had been dressing up as a priest and cracking nun jokes, had no idea what was coming even as two of the men heaved the crossbeam onto the picnic table beside him.

~~~

Dean fought the urge to throw up as acid and the taste of his own blood coated the back of his throat. He fought to retain a grip on consciousness as the world around him wavered in out of focus. His eyes begged to close.

Through his blurry vision, he could see the gaping lacerations that cut across his trembling arms. He knew the same covered his back and legs, could feel the hot trails of blood. The intensity of the pain was almost too great to feel. Nausea, exhaustion and a white-hot blur of agony threatened to swallow him whole.

Dean wanted to wake up now. He kept trying, but every time he opened his eyes he was still locked in this nightmare.

Everything around him was foggy and surreal from the man with the walking stick talking in riddles to the feathers that clung to his bloody body. The wings hung heavy, pulling against the gashes covering his back. It should be hot, but he was so damn cold.

He ran his tongue over his bloody lips as he distantly watched the men beside him drop a long chunk of roughly cut wood onto the bloodstained table. His amulet, its leather lace cut by a lash of the whip, lay smeared with red beside it.

He didn’t even try to guess what the sadistic bastards were doing. He was beyond the point of caring. All he wanted was for the fiery pain to stop. He just wanted to lie down and didn’t care if he got back up except that Sam was still tied to a post.

Dean didn’t know if he could stand. He knew he couldn’t fight even though he doubted most of those surrounding him would try all that hard to keep him here. Their expressions had changed from anxious excitement to something solemn and tentative. Maybe the reality of what had been done was finally sinking in. It was all fun and games until someone got flayed to death.

He was sure most of them didn’t want to hurt him. They just wanted to save themselves from the crazy bastard with the stick or whatever load of apocalyptic bullshit he’d fed them.

Two of the men grabbed his wrists and bent him backwards over the table to lay over the wood beam. The wings cushioned his back some, but his bare arms scraped against the wood. They tugged his wings out to join his arms and tied ropes around his wrists, binding him to the beam with his arms and wings outstretched.

They lifted the beam from the table, pulling him up with it. He stumbled to find his footing only to have the beam balanced over his shoulders when he did. Dean choked back a cry as the weight pushed down on his shredded back.

He stumbled to the side to compensate for the extra weight of the solid wood. It was lighter than his brother, but weighed at least as much as a full-grown woman. He was already struggling under his own weight.

Keeping his feet beneath him required too much concentration for him to ask what they wanted. He couldn’t think beyond the moment he was in now, blindly following their lead.

They surrounded him as he walked, dragging his feet. He didn’t even know how he made it to the point where they stopped him at the base of another beam erected in the ground. He looked past it to the expanse of weather-carved rocks beyond the plateau's edge.

They let him collapse, barely catching the weight of the beam as he fell. Several of the men shoved the beam so it lay flat on the ground with Dean lying on top. The impact jarred his entire body. The rough ground and sand pressed into his torn backside as he stared blankly up at the blue sky.

The sun beat down on them, but was moving lower towards the mountains in the distance. Dean wasn’t sure if he’d see it set, but he knew he wouldn’t see it rise.

His eyes were falling closed when he heard Sam shout. Panic gripped Dean as he anxiously searched the crowd for his brother. He didn’t find him before he realized what Sam was demanding for them not to do.

Dean screamed too as a paralyzing pain shot through his arm. The hammering shook the wood beneath him, the thuds a deafening background to the haze of pain. One of the spikes that had earlier pierced his wings was being driven through them again, but this time, it was going through his wrist first.

His fingers curled. When he tried to straighten them, nothing happened. He couldn’t even feel them anymore. He could only feel the pain radiating clear down to his shoulder.

They moved to his other wrist and drove another spike down through his flesh. He was hit by another wave of pain while still reeling from the first.

His vision narrowed and he felt himself being lifted. Immediately the strain began to tear at his shoulders as the support of the ground was gone and gravity pulled him down. The spikes in his wrist were the only things holding him up and every jostling movement shot fresh agony through his arms while rough wood scraped against his flayed back.

Once the movement stopped, they gripped his ankles and pushed up his legs until his knees were partly bent. He felt them fold his raw feet on top of each other and the sharp point press against the top one. He didn’t open his eyes to watch, only tilted his head back in a soundless cry as a bolt was driven through both his feet.

It was a momentary relief having the support of his feet to push off. The screaming in his shoulders eased slightly, taking some of the strain off his tight chest. That was until the full impact of putting pressure on the bloody soles of his impaled feet kicked in.

He quickly shifted back to letting his shoulders bear the brunt of his weight until he had to raise himself to exhale again. The simple act seared pain through his entire body.

Even in the heat of the sun, Dean couldn’t stop shaking. His eyelids were heavy as he searched the crowd for Sam. His brother was being held back at the foot of the cross. Dean locked his gaze on Sam and the struggling momentarily ceased.

As he felt his grip on the world loosening, he couldn’t see the worshippers around them or hear the chanting. Dean only saw his brother alive and well and that was all he’d ever asked for.


	3. Chapter 3

Two thousand miles in three days. Victor had never hunted anyone who moved as fast as these damn Winchesters. He was ready for a good night's sleep in his own bed and his boss off his ass. But aside from being exhausted to the bone and not wanting to answer his phone, he was actually going to miss this.

It was a hit to his pride that he hadn’t caught them yet, but anyone who studied them would have a hard time believing the Winchesters were even human. Once he caught them, things would be back to boring. At least he’d save his reputation and get these monsters put away where they’d never hurt anyone again.

The office was reluctant to provide agents given how many of his tips had come up empty, but it seemed the Winchesters had finally gotten tired of being crazy all on their own. Victor was accompanying agents on a sting to shut down a cult that was brainwashing kids and turning up mutilated bodies. A real bunch of sick fucks. The Winchesters would fit in perfectly.

When he’d gone with the local agents to Malheur Marr, the crater lake the cult had been frequenting, they’d found a pile of clothes, complete with Dean Winchester’s forged ID. Victor was surprised the Winchesters had been so sloppy, but was far from shocked that they were here. He wouldn't put it past them to be the ones heading the whole damn group.

The landscape was barren, only rocky outcroppings, hot wind and unrelenting sun. He’d ditched his suit jacket back at the car. The first couple buttons of his dress shirt were undone and his tie loosened. He’d rolled up his sleeves, but the back of his shirt was still wet and sticky, clinging to his skin.

It wasn’t until they moved further into the desert, to a campground that was supposed to have been closed a couple years ago, that they’d smelled the barbeque smoke and heard the chanting. The group was made up of about thirty people staring up at a large cross that stood on the bluff’s precipice.

The sun was behind the cross and the silhouetted shapes were confusing. Someone said they thought they saw a man up there. A twist in Victor's gut said he did, too. Someone else said it looked like an angel and Victor couldn't deny that he was having trouble seeing anything else now.

It was these damn Winchesters. Every time they were around, his mind started playing tricks on itself and all he could see was a mountain of weird.

They had the group surrounded, but couldn't move in closer than the rock formations they hunkered behind without being seen. The group was assumed to be unstable and violent. They could only sit back and wait for an opening to make a move on their leader.

The older man stood at the cliff's edge, motioning for the rest to come see something in the canyon. As the others moved forward to join him, the chants ringing through the canyon abruptly fell silent.

None of them had actually believed there was a live man on that cross. Not until one of the members of the group approached the cross with a long stick tipped with a sharp, reflective point. Someone screamed. It was a hoarse, desperate cry that immediately triggered Victor’s drive to protect.

Then they began to jump. It was too horrifyingly surreal for Victor's mind to even acknowledge the sight of cult's leader holding out his arms and throwing himself backwards off the sheer cliff. That was until another immediately joined him, holding something up in her hands before falling backwards out of sight.

The agents moved in fast to try to deflect those swarming for the edge. Victor knew there was little chance of stopping the rushed panic of those who really wanted to go over, but there was one person he might be able to save.

He was close enough now to see that there was a man on the cross and another on the ground trying to save him, despite his arms being bound. Victor rushed straight for the man with the makeshift spear poised to stab the one nailed to the cross.

“Drop it!” Victor warned. “Drop it, now or I shoot.”

The man didn’t drop it. He reared back to plunge the weapon forward. Victor was true to his word, pulling the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder and sending the spear to the ground before it hit its target.

When Victor looked up, everything else stopped. He couldn’t move, couldn’t hear or see anything other than the brutalized, naked man spread over the cross, silhouetted by the late sun. Nails held him in place, spreading massive wings behind him like a pinned butterfly.

The feathers fluttered in the wind. It was the most movement that came from the man whose chest rises were nearly imperceptible. His bare flesh was burnt from the sun, but still pale beneath the rivulets of crimson that trailed down his legs and dripped from his feet.

Victor forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t sure how long it was before the begging hit his ears. When he spun to the source, he raised his gun again.

Sam Winchester was beside him. His arms were tied behind his back. His face was bruised and his lip bloody, but all that really registered was that the monster’s cheeks were wet with tears flowing from red-rimmed eyes.

Victor kept his gun leveled on the man while forcing himself to look up again at the displayed body. He squinted against the rays of the sun, but even once he blocked the beams, he still didn’t instantly recognize the face beneath the blood and twisted pain. When the recognition did hit, the rest of the air was forced from his shocked lungs.

Dean Winchester.

That snarky, smart ass now hung stripped with his head bowed. He struggled just to draw air into his failing body. They hadn’t just crucified him, but had pinned wings onto his back for whatever sick game they were playing.

His first thought was that Dean had asked for this. Not in the sense of karma, but as in literally asking to be raised on the cross. Fresh out of the academy, Victor had seen a crazy zealot set himself on fire, smiling all the while. But Dean wasn’t smiling. There was nothing but pain in his half-closed eyes.

Against his better judgment, Victor harnessed his weapon and got to work untying the bloody ropes from Sam’s wrists. “Agent Richter, what’s your situation?” Victor called to the local lead agent.

There was a stunned look in the man’s eyes as he walked back towards Victor, shaking his head. “We stopped maybe a dozen. Got most of the kids, but the rest are all over the rocks. They uh...” The agent held up a giant white feather with a blood-stained quill. “They just held up these feathers and jumped.”

“You got men down there?” Victor asked.

“They’re heading down, but they have to go the long way and with a fall like that, they’ll be lucky to identify the bodies.”

Victor nodded. A sick feeling settled into his gut, but there wasn’t anything he could do about the ones who were gone. He focused on the situation he had right in front of him and slipped free the last rope holding Sam’s wrists.

Once the ropes hit the ground, Sam didn’t even look at Victor. He was ready for the Winchester to make a run for it, but Sam didn’t try to take off. Instead, he sprinted the rest of the way to the cross.

“Help me get him down,” Sam ordered.

The desperation was deep enough that Victor didn’t rail against the fugitive making demands. He just motioned for the gawking agents who weren’t rounding up kids to help him. Then he did the one thing he would’ve sworn he’d never do. He let Sam Winchester take the lead.

Victor didn’t know the first thing about putting up or taking down a cross, but he guessed that Sam had seen the thing being raised. Sam looked stunned, but his eyes focused on the spikes embedded in Dean’s feet, which seemed as good of a place to start as any.

Victor snapped his fingers at the closest agent. “Get me some water and something to get these damn nails out.”

It was Agent McCalla. From what he’d been told, it was the guy’s second day on assignment. Despite that, the agent looked more together than most here.

At Victor’s order, the young man snapped to attention. “On it, sir.”

As the agent scurried off, Victor watched the blood coiling down Dean’s shaking feet then looked back at Sam. One of America’s most wanted was fighting not to break down as he struggled to support his brother’s weight. Sam’s arms stretched over his head, gripping Dean’s thigh and pushing up so Dean could take a breath unhindered.

Victor wordlessly grasped Dean’s other bare thigh, helping Sam to lift him. He kept his mouth shut when he felt how clammy the skin was. It almost felt cool when it should be hot. Dean was already going into shock.

Victor’s arms quickly grew tired from holding Dean’s weight. His hands were slick with blood that seeped down his arms as a car they’d parked further down the road screeched to a stop just behind the picnic site. The dust hadn’t settled before McCalla jumped out and ran back with a bottle of water, a tire iron and a first aid kit.

“It’s all I could find,” McCalla said.

Sam reluctantly released his hold on Dean. He wiped the blood from his hands onto his grungy jeans before taking the tire iron into his shaking hands. His breath was ragged as he looked between it and his brother.

Victor could only guess at the thoughts going through Sam’s head. No one looking at him would question that Sam was prepared to do anything to save his brother, but this wasn’t going to be pretty. No one should have to pry stakes from their dying brother’s feet.

Victor held his hand out to take the tire iron. “You just hold him.”

Sam only hesitated long enough to meet Victor’s eyes. He knew Sam had no reason to trust him. They didn’t have any reason to trust each other, but right now, Victor didn’t give a damn who was on that cross. He just wanted to get the man down and that was one thing both he and Sam could agree on.

It took several tries for Victor to get a grip on the narrow head of the spike. He swallowed down the taste of acid when he was unable to avoid gouging more flesh from the top of the foot to get between it and the nail. The man hanging above him made a strangled sound, airless and desperate, as Victor pressed against his foot to leverage out the spike.

Victor had seen his fair share of bullet wounds, and hadn’t imagined Dean’s feet would look all that different. But there weren’t any major arteries in the portion of the foot they’d driven the spike through. Most of the blood dripping from Dean’s feet was winding down from the gaping wounds on the back of his legs or seeping from the cuts that covered the soles of his feet.

The relatively small amount of blood coming from the impalement wounds only made the damage more visible. It wasn’t nearly so clean as a 9mm’s entrance wound. There had been nothing fast about the crushing penetration through the flesh and small bones.

With the lower nail free, most of Dean’s weight shifted to Sam, who slipped in-between his legs. He positioned Dean’s hips so that Dean was sitting on his shoulders.

Blood from Dean’s legs was smeared over the side of Sam’s face when he looked back to Victor. “There’s a ladder over there,” Sam said, with a nod towards the picnic area. “Let’s just get the nails out and cut the ropes.”

Victor nodded an affirmative to McCalla, who jogged over to grab the ladder. As long as they didn’t drop him, lifting him down would be easier on Dean’s body than the jarring it would take to disassemble the cross with him on it.

They threw up the ladder in front of the cross, digging the feet of it between the rocks of the uneven terrain. Victor gave it a shake to make sure it was stable before climbing up.

Once he was level with Dean, he got his first real look at the man’s face. Dean’s dull green eyes weren’t filled with terror, only a quiet determination edged with acceptance as he looked down towards his brother. Victor couldn't understand how Dean was still alive, let alone clinging to consciousness.

“You’re going to be okay, Dean,” Sam said.

He kept telling his brother that everything would be fine as Victor took up the tire iron again. The spikes in Dean’s wrists had also been carefully placed in the center, missing both of the main arteries that flowed through them. He knew it hadn’t been done out of compassion, but to ensure that death was slower in coming.

When the first bolt was pulled from his wrist, Dean's head tilted back as if he was screaming, but no sound came out. Victor grimaced before leaning to the other side to pry out the other. He let the blood-slicked nails fall to the ground, clanking against the rocks below. One fell beside the dagger tied to the gnarled stick.

“Get me that knife,” Victor said.

McCalla tugged it free from the twine that held it to the stick and passed the blade up to Victor. He slipped it beneath one of the ropes that still bound Dean’s arms and sawed away the fibers. Without the bind’s support, Dean's arm fell limp. So did half the wing that Victor had assumed was part of the cross.

Victor glanced to those below as he began to cut the last rope. “He’s coming down.”

Sam repositioned himself with his arms reaching for Dean’s waist. With the other’s help, he caught Dean the moment his body fell forward. Despite their care, Dean still coiled in pain when he was laid on the ground where the sand clumped to his bloody skin.

McCalla laid the jacket he’d been carrying over Dean’s waist. Sam, who was already on his knees beside Dean, gave a nod of appreciation. He pressed his fingers against Dean’s neck, obviously not liking the rhythm he found there.

Sam applied bandages to Dean’s wrist with practiced hands. The care with which he moved Dean’s arms further rocked Victor’s world view of the brothers. He’d never seen anyone handle someone that gently.

“Can't feel my arms,” Dean croaked.

Victor's mind couldn’t process the contrast between what he remembered of Dean's annoyingly confident tone and the shattered voice he heard now. What struck him even more was that there was somehow still strength there.

Sam nodded as he finished taping off the second wrist. “It's okay, Dean.”

Like his motions in tying off the bandages, the words sounded too familiar on Sam’s lips. Sam rubbed his hand over Dean's arm to try to return the circulation. From how much blood Dean wore on the outside, Victor doubted there was enough blood to circulate.

Victor turned his attention to releasing the elaborate wings from Dean’s back, which was going to be a hell of a lot bloodier. He considered leaving them for the doctors, but they were so large it would be difficult to get them into the car.

His plan of attack changed when Sam lifted Dean up enough to drink and Victor got a clear view of Dean’s backside. Blood seeped from the raw skin, which was flayed deep enough to further unsettle his stomach.

He tried to look past the mess of slashes to where the wings were attached, but found the same muscle-deep gashes sliced into the wings themselves. The wings weren’t only covered in blood. They were bleeding.

It had to be Winchester madness playing more tricks on his mind. He reached out to touch one of the cuts. His hand jerked back when the wing fluttered weakly in protest. He followed the wings down to Dean’s back, where they weren’t pinned in, but the joints disappeared seamlessly into his shoulders, no more separate than his arms were.

“They’re real,” Sam said.

His tone was dismissive, like he was just confirming a simple fact and Victor shouldn’t think anything of it. Sam’s focused remained on gathering his brother into his arms. His brother, who apparently had wings.

“What do you mean they’re real?” Victor asked.

“He’s an angel,” McCalla said with the same damn tone.

They both sounded as if Victor was the crazy one for questioning the fact that this guy had giant wings sprouting out of his back.

“He’s...” Victor shook his head as he stood back up to his full height. “That’s no angel. Because let me tell you, if Dean Winchester is an angel...”

“He’s not an angel,” Sam interrupted. “They did this to him.”

Victor had no clue what that was supposed to mean, but let it drop when Sam struggled to lift his brother. Sam looked like he was familiar with how to carry Dean in his arms, but the wings were flopping around and throwing Dean’s weight off balance. McCalla helped to collect the wings, folding them against Dean’s body.

“Where do think you’re taking him?” Victor asked.

Sam looked unsure about what to make of the question and Victor was even less sure about what he was asking. He didn’t know what to make of the Winchesters now and he couldn’t take a dying angel into custody. Not anymore than Sam could just run Dean into the nearest hospital and expect the doctors to do anything other than gawk at his wings.

“The Sisters of St. Mary’s convent is near by,” McCalla said. “They’ll take care of him there.”

That was only a partial answer to what Victor was asking, but he tossed aside the last of his better judgment. “Fine. Get him in the car. I’m driving.”

Whether or not Victor had been right about the Winchesters, he’d never seen a man look as dead as Dean and still be breathing. On the off chance that Victor had been wrong, and Dean was innocent, then the least the man deserved was to die in a decent bed.

~~~

Sam did his best to cushion Dean from the jostling as the car sped down the rocky road. They’d left the open volcanic flats and sweeping open desert for a more secluded patch of pine forest.

The sky was still light, but the sun had disappeared behind the mountains and the air was quickly cooling. They’d wrapped a blanket around Dean to try to keep in what little body heat he had left.

Sam was still apprehensive about being in the back of a FBI car, but he had to give Henricksen credit for breaking every possible speed limit. The younger agent, who Sam knew still believed Dean was an angel, was in the front passenger seat directing the way. Regardless of their past experience with the FBI, Sam couldn’t deny that these two agents seemed to be doing everything in their power to save Dean now.

Dean lay on his side on the backseat with his wings flopping down towards the floor. He was draped over Sam’s lap. His blood had already soaked through the blanket and into Sam’s jeans. It wasn’t like he could put pressure on the wounds. There were far too many.

Dean’s barely functional hand tried to grip the front of Sam’s shirt. Sam leaned further over him and wrapped his arms around his brother. There was no way to avoid the wounds that covered him. He was more concerned about physically reassuring Dean he was there.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam whispered. “Just hold on.”

Henricksen looked back at them through the rearview mirror. “How’s he doing?”

Dean’s entire body was trembling and the spaces between his breaths were growing erratic. Sam could feel him slipping away. He gripped Dean tighter as he could hold his soul in.

Sam wasn’t even trying to stop the tears that continued to spill silently down his cheeks, but he cleared his throat before replying. “He’s gonna be fine.”

It was the only option. This morning Dean had been okay. He’d been laughing and joking like Sam hadn’t heard for longer than he could remember.

Dean had been like a little kid at the tour of the dam, excited about the big machines in between helping an old lady with her wheelchair. Sam had just wanted to give him one day to pretend everything was all right and even that had been taken away.

The car made a sharp turn down an isolated driveway. They were finally approaching a group of buildings. Sam desperately clung to the hope that it was soon enough.

Once Victor stopped the car, McCalla leapt out and ran inside. The agent had said he’d interviewed the nuns at the convent the other day as part of the cult investigation. He seemed to know where he was going, but Sam’s heart sank as he looked around the place.

There were winding paths leading to old stone buildings with intricate stained glass windows. Chickens scratched through the dirt in one of the gardens and sheep grazed the dry pasture beyond. It looked like they’d driven into the eighteenth century. He wasn’t sure this place even had electricity, let alone the equipment to do anything other than pray for Dean.

Despite his concerns, Sam could feel by the shallowness of Dean’s breath that his brother wouldn’t make it any further. He reached for the door handle, but Victor was already there opening the door for him. The agent reached in and helped to haul Dean out of the car.

Dean had stopped responding before they’d left the campground. He was clearly unconscious now and didn’t react to being moved.

Sam rested his hand against Dean’s throat to check that there was still a pulse there. With Victor’s help, he lifted Dean back into his arms and rushed him towards the building McCalla waved them towards.

Relief washed over him when he maneuvered Dean through the doorway and found a small, but fully functional hospital. In contrast to the rural exterior, there was electricity, and monitoring equipment was already being set up beside the bed Sam was directed to lay Dean down on.

The young nun closest to him gasped at her first sight of Dean. She whispered a prayer before going straight to work with the others. They laid a folded sheet over Dean’s hips and gently pulled the wings aside to expose his back. Two of the nurses supported the outstretched wings while the others worked on examining the worst of Dean’s injuries.

Earlier in the day, Sam had rubbed his hands over the skin of Dean’s back and worried about a few cuts he’d found there. Now that same skin was mangled beyond recognition. The pale flesh he’d wanted to protect from the sun was disguised beneath a layer of blood.

They were preparing fluids and a blood transfusion when McCalla approached him. “This is Sister Irene.”

The older woman looked very much like what Sam would consider a stereotypical nun, but her eyes were filled with concern when she looked past him to Dean. With a warm smile, she took Sam’s hand into hers.

“I’m so sorry for all this, dear,” she told him. “But you couldn’t have come to a better place. I’ve spent a great many years studying the Crucifixion, including the medical implications. How about you sit down and we’ll discuss everything.”

Sam was about to object until he realized she wasn’t taking him away from Dean. She guided him to a seat barely five feet away from where he was already standing so he could watch Dean while they worked.

Before he sat, he noticed Henricksen still standing in the doorway. He’d forgotten the agent was even here.

“Thank you, Sister,” Sam said. “Excuse me for a second. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Sam’s long strides carried him back to the door. “Henricksen—”

“Honestly? I don’t even want to know,” the agent said. “But if I ever hear another word about you...”

“You won’t,” Sam assured him. “Not like that, but I need to ask you a favor.”

“A favor? Oh, yeah, sure. Anything for my two favorite fugitives.” The agent sighed as he looked past him to where the nurses were working on Dean. “Fine, but make it good. You only get one play of the pity card.”

“I need the book that Daniel used for the ritual he did on my brother. I didn’t see it, but there has to be one with the cult’s supplies.”

“That’s all?” Henricksen’s tone was seeping with sarcasm. “You just want me to hand over the evidence from an active investigation to a known fugitive?” Before Sam could explain, Henricksen held his hand up to stop him. “The least I know the better, but I’ll see what I can do.”

~~~

Chanting echoed around Dean. It was distant in the fog, but clear enough to trigger his adrenaline pumping. Fear edged him closer to waking even though he still struggled to open his eyes. When the chants fell silent, he waited for the pain to follow.

Not pain came, but he felt himself being lifted again. When he was set back down the surface beneath him was soft, but hands were on him, repositioning his legs. He swung before his vision could focus. The attacker caught his fist in a firm grip. He kicked out, trying to throw off the man who forced him down.

“Dean!”

Sam’s panicked call made him twist harder against the hold. There was a group closing in around him. They were all women aside from the man who held him. That stopped him from throwing another punch, but didn’t stop his struggle.

“I can give him a sedative,” one of the women said.

Dean only barely comprehended the meaning of the words. Mostly, he just understood that he didn’t want whatever she’d just said. He tried to argue, but sounds refused to flow into sentences.

“No, he’s fine,” Sam said. “Just give him a minute. Dean, look at me. Hey! You’re okay.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. He looked up to see Sam hovering over him, clutching his hand and trying to keep him from kicking. Dean’s heart still pounded in his chest as his eyes darted around the room.

With the people surrounding him, he could only see the ceiling, but the heavy, exposed beams were enough to tell that it was an old building. They also stirred an unease that he couldn’t place.

Somewhere there also had to be large windows because the place was filled with natural light. It had the sharp antiseptic smell like a hospital, but it was softened by a mix of flowers and herbs.

Machines clicked and buzzed and footsteps echoed as people hustled around his bed. A young woman appeared beside Sam, also hovering over him and looking down with concern.

He became lost in the softness of her face. It was filled with kindness that for some reason seemed strange. It delayed him from seeing the habit she wore, which immediately squelched any hopes of buying her a drink later.

Nuns. He was surrounded by nuns. More to the point, he was lying on a bed naked in front of a bunch of nuns.

They’d laid him on his side and he curled up his legs to cover himself, but one of them was already pulling a sheet over him. She gently tucked a blanket beneath his arm. Another nun was heading off with a bundle of cloth in her arms. Dean huffed. Whatever had happened, he now had some poor nuns stuck changing his bed.

He tried to remember where he was, but Sam was the only familiar thing here. His memory didn’t kick in until one of the nuns leaned over him and a rosary’s crucifix dangled in front of his eyes.

“He’s doing all right,” the woman said. “Let’s give them some space.”

The crowd cleared away, letting Dean see the rest of the hospital beds. They were all empty and Dean was thankful for at least that. His gaze settled on a stained glass window on the far wall. Its bright colored glass depicted an angel with its wings spread.

“No,” Dean groaned.

There was no way what he remembered as one seriously fucked up dream, had been real, but he wasn’t so sure as he felt though the medication-induced haze to the pain beneath. It was a dull, constant ache everywhere with sharp twinges when he moved.

He held up his arm. It was wrapped in gauze with especially thick padding at his wrists. When he tried to flex his fingers, nothing happened.

Dean tried not to panic. “What the hell?”

“It’s okay, Dean, they’re working on it,” Sam said. “How’re you feeling otherwise?”

“How am...? Like hell it’s okay. I’m wrapped up like a damn mummy and I can’t hold a gun while a crazy cult is on our asses.” Dean scrubbed his hand over his face as he tried to put together the mishmash of pieces. “There was a cult, right? Or cannibals...fuck, I hate cannibals.”

“They’re gone, Dean.”

He didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but there was enough finality in Sam’s words that Dean focused on the fact Sam had ignored. If they thought he needed this many bandages, at least part of what he remembered must have really happened.

“Do I got wings?” Dean tried to look over his shoulder, but turning his head tugged painfully at his skin. He plopped back onto the pillow. “Please tell me they didn’t turn me into some Victoria’s Secret model.”

“We’re working on it.”

“Awesome. So basically, I’m completely and totally...” Dean kicked himself when he realized he hadn’t even checked Sam out. He tried to sit up when he saw the fading bruise on the side of Sam’s face and bandages wrapping both his wrists. “Are you okay?”

Sam guided him back down onto the bed. “I’m fine. Just lie down. You’re covered in wounds that are trying to heal and the doctors have already replaced most of your blood.”

One of the nuns reappeared to set a cup of tea on the table beside Dean’s bed. She smiled down at him. “It’s truly a miracle that you’re still with us.”

Sam’s nod of agreement made Dean roll his eyes. The last thing he felt right now was blessed. He couldn’t even get a sense for most of his body. His fingers were numb, but he felt things he shouldn’t be able to, as if he had an extra pair of arms feeling around behind him.

He tried to stretch his actual arms, but his wings flexed out, too. Sam scrambled to catch the tea cup the nun had left. The saucer wasn’t so lucky and clattered to the floor.

Dean tried to pull the wings back in. He wasn’t sure if he actually succeeded, but at least nothing else fell over. “So when are we taking a hacksaw to these things?”

“We can’t just cut them off, Dean. They did x-rays. The ritual changed your entire shoulder structure.”

“So they really turned me into a nef...whatever?”

“Nephilim, and no. Nephilims are frequently portrayed with wings, but they were a race of giants that appeared in the Old Testament.”

“Where?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still human...just with wings. The ritual probably triggered whatever it is that lets shapeshifters change form.”

“Okay...so how do I shift back?”

“Henricksen is still trying to get a hold of the book they used for the ritual.” Sam picked the fallen saucer off the floor and set it on the table before leaning back in his chair. “Right now the important thing is just working on getting you better.”

“Wait. Henricksen?” Dean was sure that he’d heard Sam wrong. “Was I out long enough for hell to freeze over?”

“It’s been a few days,” Sam said.

He didn’t look at Dean when he spoke. Dean wasn’t sure what the actual translation of a few days was. He quirked a questioning brow at Sam.

“They had to put you in a coma,” Sam admitted. “But just through the worst of it. You’re going to be okay.”

“I know,” Dean said. “That’s not what I’m worried about. The FBI knows where we are and you didn’t think it was time to haul ass out of here?”

“Dean, the FBI rescued you.”

“Come again?”

“I know this miracle stuff isn’t your thing, but if Henricksen and the FBI team hadn’t showed up at a random spot in the middle of the desert at the exact time we needed them...and if this convent hadn’t been here...”

“Oh, please,” Dean groaned. “Miracle, my ass.”

Dean squirmed on the bed. He could tell they had him on a lot of meds, but it wasn’t enough to make him buy Sam’s glass half full, big man floating on a cloud crap. If anyone had been watching over him, they could’ve stopped the cult from snatching them up in the first place.

If there was some great, powerful being looking out for him, it could’ve stopped Dad from going to hell for him or saved Mom from the fire. It could’ve kept Sam out of this life. One good thing happening in a shit storm of bad wasn’t proof of anything.

“There’s no way you should’ve been able to survive that long with so little blood,” Sam said.

“So you’re giving God credit for my stamina?” Dean asked. “I just had to make sure you got out of there.”

Dean sighed at Sam’s frown. He knew his brother wanted to believe something bigger was looking out for them. Sam could believe whatever he wanted. He just couldn’t expect Dean to sniff the fairy dust, too.

“Look, if this all just goes away,” Dean said with a motion towards himself. “If some mojo from on high takes away these damn wings, fixes my hands and lets me walk away from this, scar free, then maybe we’ll talk about higher powers. Short of that, this is just the same old crap.”

Sam rested his hand on Dean’s arm. “I don’t care why you think you’re still here, Dean. I’m just glad you decided to stick around.”


	4. Chapter 4

A pair of jays chattered in the pine tree above Sam. He sat on the bench that had been built around the tree’s trunk in the quiet courtyard. The hidden garden was tucked between the buildings. Roses rambled along the walls that guarded against the heat of the sun, but the summer air was still warm, even in the shade.

Sam tipped his head back and stared up through the tree limbs to the bright blue sky above. His fingers absently twirled around the new leather string Sister Irene had given him for Dean’s amulet. He’d been twisting it around for days. Dean wouldn’t like it if it was stiff. He’d want it to feel loose and soft, just like the old one had.

Sam's hands still shook at the thought of how close he’d come to losing his brother. The amulet’s original string had been sliced clean through. It hadn’t been a werewolf’s claw or a demon’s dagger. Just an ordinary human had whipped Dean hard enough to cut through the leather and skin and gouge out the flesh below. Thirty-nine times.

Sam hadn’t counted. He hadn’t been able to think at all, but it was Sister Irene’s best guess. Thirty-nine lashes with three lead-weighted leather thongs interwoven with shards of metal. One hundred and seventeen individual slices cut into Dean’s skin and more stitches than anyone could bear to count.

The Sister knew because she’d talked to Daniel. Not just once or twice, but for months. Daniel Walcott, supposed theologist, had stayed at one of the convent’s guest cabins studying under Sister Irene and apparently building a group of followers on his weekends away from the cabin.

No one had suspected a thing until several of the convent’s restricted texts had gone missing and Daniel along with them. It was why Sister Irene hadn’t been more startled by Dean’s wings. She had already guessed what had caused them.

Just the thought that someone had known, that someone could have stopped this before it happened, had enraged Sam beyond reason. It was Dean who had told him to lay off.

Sam realized Sister Irene hadn't meant for this to happen, but Dean hadn’t seen what he had. He hadn’t watched his brother be torn apart and nailed up to die.

Dean lay on the bench beside him. He was on his stomach with his head resting against Sam's thigh. His wings were draped over him, one sagging low enough to touch the ground.

Sam’s hand brushed over the tip of a feather. The wing twitched and Sam quickly pulled his hand away.

He didn’t want to wake his brother. He just still couldn’t believe what his own eyes were seeing, not even after more than a week of watching nurses work around the wings.

They hadn’t given Dean too much trouble yet, but half the time he hadn’t been aware enough to remember he had them. Dean hadn’t been doing much other than sleeping and Sam was thankful for that.

Right now, Dean was still adjusting to new pain meds and his body had to devote all its energy to healing. Once he could stay awake, there would be no stopping him from hitting the ground running, whether or not his body was ready. The fact that Dean was sleeping in the courtyard was testament to that.

The moment they’d been able to take him off IVs, Dean had demanded to be let out of bed. He hadn’t even cared that he could barely walk on his battered feet and with his torn calves. He couldn’t even put on actual clothes.

Dean’s boots had been replaced by slippers which, at the moment, were precariously close to falling from his heavily bandaged feet. It was almost hard to tell that he wasn’t wearing a shirt because there were so few spots of his torso and arms that weren’t wrapped in bandages, but there was no shirt that would fit with the wings.

For pants, he wore loose fitting hospital scrubs because jeans were tight over his bandaged legs and backside. His hands didn’t work well enough to button them, anyway.

Driving the large nails through Dean's wrists had damaged the nerves, leaving his hands partially paralyzed. It was the worst on his right hand where the fingers were curled and unable to straighten. On the left, it was his thumb that wouldn't bend.

Dean loved working with his hands. He prided himself on his weapons handling probably more than anything and, when he was anxious, he would tinker with every little nut and bolt on the Impala. The thought of Dean losing full use of his hands terrified Sam because he knew what it would do to his brother.

As soon as Dean was strong enough, the doctors were going to try a surgery to replace the damaged portion of his nerves. They thought it would help, maybe even fix it, but depending on how bad the damage really was, it could take far longer to heal than Dean would accept. Sam prayed the damage wasn’t as bad as they thought. Months of practicing bending his fingers would be enough to push Dean over the edge.

Sam looked up when he heard the echo of approaching footsteps. They sounded too heavy to belong to any of the sisters, which immediately put him on the defensive. He gently lifted Dean’s head off his leg so he could stand and fight if necessary. Dean shifted, but didn’t wake.

The man who approached was one of the last Sam had expected. Henricksen stood beneath the arbor entrance to the courtyard with a box in his arms. Despite his request, and the agent's words, Sam hadn't actually thought he would come through.

Henricksen’s footsteps became quiet when he noticed Dean was sleeping. He shook his head. “They said he was still alive, but I can’t say I believed it.”

Sam looked down at Dean and nodded. He’d thought Dean was gone on the car ride over here. Dean didn’t understand why everyone kept talking about miracles because all he could see was the wounds that remained, but he hadn’t seen himself. He still had no idea how bad it had really been.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.

Henricksen set the box on the bench beside him. Sam leaned over to look inside. It was filled with books and jars of herbs. He lifted one of the old, leather bound books out and glanced through it. The yellowed pages were filled with Latin.

“I didn’t know what you needed,” Henricksen said. “But there’s not going to be a trial. So, hell, while I’m stealing evidence, why not take it all?”

Sam slid the book back into the box, not quite sure what to say. “Thank you. This should be exactly what we need. So Daniel and the others...?”

“We got the one I shot to talk. Actually he wouldn’t shut up. Basically, whatever they did to your brother, he wasn’t the first. There’s a trail of missing persons going back about two years. All young men late twenties to mid thirties, all had plans to go hiking around Malheur Marr. The bodies that were recovered were all a bloody, mangled mess. The guy we got in custody just said they weren’t strong enough. A heaping bucket of crazy, if you ask me.”

Sam flashed back to the sight of Dean’s body being torn open by the wings. Maybe Daniel had been working out problems with the ritual. Or maybe Dean really had been the first who was strong, either way, it was just one more reminder of how close he’d come to losing Dean.

“It’ll be a closed casket funeral for Daniel,” Henricksen said. “Same goes for Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Sam hadn’t really slept since they’d arrived here and exhaustion was wearing him thin. It took a long moment for Henricksen’s words to catch up with him.

“You’re just going to let us go?” Sam asked.

“They might have found your brother’s ID with the other bodies and of course you wouldn’t have been far. No reason to waste tax payer’s hard-earned dollars hunting dead fugitives.”

Sam hadn’t realized how heavily the silent threat of the FBI knowing their location had been weighing on him. It was one more thing that could take Dean away. More than once, lying awake at night, listening to Dean breathing, he had wondered if he’d been reading Henricksen right or if he should take his brother and run.

“Why help us?” Sam asked.

“I figure it’s the least I could do considering how wrong I’d been. You see, I looked into the charges against you two. Every case, every time anyone spotted you two, people were dying. So I thought, simple enough. Only there was one thing I’d been missing. The deaths always stopped, not started, when you two showed up.”

Henricksen looked over Dean as he continued, “I don’t know who or what you two are, but I got a feeling you can do a lot more good out here than rotting in supermax.” He nodded towards Dean. “Doubt it would hold him anyway. That brother of yours is like a damn cockroach.”

Sam smiled for the first time since they’d been taken by the cult. Henricksen was right about a lot of things, including the fact that next to nothing could stop Dean.

~~~

There was no air conditioning in the cabin. It was cooled some by the shade of the trees, but the heat was still sweltering beneath the down blanket of feathers. Dean tried to hold the wings up off his skin, but his shoulders soon became exhausted. He grudgingly let them rest back down against his sweat-sticky, bandaged back.

Dean wiped the bead of sweat from his brow. He clenched his jaw in frustration as his fingers only partially cooperated. They’d done the great surgery that Sam had sworn would fix everything. It hadn’t. His fingers mostly straightened now, but they were still numb and stiff.

After he’d woken from anesthesia, the attending nurse had gleefully informed him that at his young age it might only be a few months before he regained semi-normal movement. Within a year, he might even regain full sensation.

He would’ve gone ballistic at that news even if he thought he was going to be alive in a year, which he probably wouldn’t be. In fact, he definitely wouldn’t be given that he wasn’t going to be able to fight for shit without feeling in his fingers.

“We’ll just take some time off,” Sam said.

“A year?” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re just gonna kick back and drink cocktails for a year?”

“It might not take a year and lying low might not be a bad thing. You’re the one that wanted to give this all some time.”

Dean paced around the single room cabin. The floorboards creaked beneath his wrapped feet. It still hurt to walk. Each footstep reverberated through his raw nerves and tugged at the tight muscles of his healing legs. It didn’t matter. He needed the distraction.

“I don’t care where we go, just as long as we go.”

“What? Dean, we’re not leaving.”

Dean spun back towards his brother, stopping beside the open window. The breeze that blew in was hot and the window would probably be better off closed, but Dean felt confined enough as it was. What he could do without was the choir hymns that floated in on the wind.

“We’re sure as hell not staying,” Dean said.

“This place isn’t so bad. I mean, what kind of demon is going to come looking for us at a convent?”

“One that eats virgins for breakfast and I don’t want that on my head.”

Dean stopped pacing long enough to grab his flask. He held it between his thighs to steady it so his few working fingers could unscrew the top. Sam took it away first.

Dean growled. “Dude, I need a drink.”

“You’re on like three kinds of medication. Drink your water.”

“I’m not thirsty,” Dean said. “I’m just...I’m sick and tired of hearing about what a fucking miracle I am. I’m not a miracle. I’m just a guy with stupid-ass wings and shitty luck.”

“No one else could have survived that.”

“Whatever. This place gives me the creeps. It’s like someone’s always looking over my shoulder and I’m surrounded by virgins who’ve seen me naked. It’s not like I can even get my rocks off about it without risking being struck by lightning.”

“Dean, if you make another porn movie reference, I’m going to strike you down.”

Dean swiped at the sweat at the nape of his neck. When he moved his wing up out of the way, it hit the lamp, which Sam was getting used to catching. Dean cursed beneath his breath.

“It’s fine, Dean. But will you just lie down already? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

Dean grumbled as he lay out over the closest bed. His wings didn’t sprawl so much anymore and despite running into things, he was actually getting decent control over them.

Anything but lying down on his stomach still made his back ache with a fiery intensity. It wasn’t only the wings’ weight pulling at the healing gashes. It was the constant use of muscles that hadn’t even existed a couple weeks ago.

“If I’m really the miracle boy everyone keeps saying, these damn things would be good for something. Do you think I could pull a Superman?”

“You can’t fly, Dean. Those wings would have to be way bigger and a lot more than the structure of your shoulders would have to change. Your chest would have to be something like four feet deep to accommodate—”

“Please tell me you just looked all that crap up because you were hoping I could fly you around and that isn’t actually all just rattling around in your head.” Sam’s expression said it all. “Such a freak. Come on, let’s just hit the road.”

“You can’t even fit in a car seat.”

Dean wrapped his arms around his pillow. He fully intended to get up. In a few minutes. “I’ll lay in the back until we get to Bobby’s.”

“Bobby is still out of town on that hunt.”

“Yeah, I bet he’s on a hunt...”

“Dean, I’m serious. We have stay until we do the ritual. If something goes wrong, you might need a hospital and this is the only one that’s going to understand what’s going on.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine, but we’re doing it tonight.”

“Dean, we should wait.”

“For what? Until we find another cult that likes fondling pretty wings? Dude, it’s bad enough that I’m officially celibate. If I can’t fly, what’s the point in going around playing the part of John Travolta’s Michael?”

“We’ll get rid of the wings,” Sam promised. “And celibacy isn’t infectious. I don’t think there’s any threat of you catching it.”

Dean shifted his head on his pillow to look away from Sam and clenched his jaw. It was one thing to explain away a tattoo with a symbol that normal people thought was satanic. It wasn’t like Dean seriously gave a crap, but there’d be no way to avoid the pity looks and heart to hearts if he tried to pick up girls with the scars he’d end up with if he lived long enough.

It would at least be nice if he had enough working fingers to properly jerk himself off. They had far bigger problems, he got that. He was just tired.

He was used to exhaustion, but usually there was some sense that things could get better. Now he was starting to wonder if Sam’s god was really up there. Maybe this was no accident. Maybe he just had it coming.

It wasn’t like he was supposed to be alive anyway. It was like the universe felt the need to keep beating him over the head with that fact. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do aside from keep pretending everything would work out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“You really doing okay?”

Dean turned his head back over to stare in Sam’s general direction. He grimaced at the worry in Sam’s tired eyes. For weeks, Sam hadn’t been doing a damn thing but taking care of his sorry ass.

“Dean, if you really want to go...”

“Nah, you’re right. There’s no way I got your back like this. We’d be sitting ducks out there.”

“It’s just for a little while,” Sam said. “Until things get better.”

Dean stifled a wry chuckle. It was practically a quote from Dad. Dean had used to believe it, but this was where “better” had gotten them. It didn’t matter if he believed it anymore, just as long as Sam still did.

“Yeah, sure.”

Sam patted Dean’s leg on his way to the door. “You get some rest. I’m gonna talk to Sister Irene about the ritual.”

“I’ve been sleeping for weeks,” Dean muttered. “I’m not tired.”

He heard Sam leave, his footsteps crunching over the gravel outside the cabin. With a sigh, he let his head sink back into the pillow. The choir singing outside didn’t make it through another song before his eyes drifted closed.

~~~

Sam read over the ritual once more. He’d been combing over every inch of text since before the sun had set. He was sure they’d found the ritual Daniel had recited. There wasn’t much to it aside from consuming some herbs after a cleansing in holy water. Now they just had to reverse it without killing Dean in the process.

“I’d told Mr. Walcott that the lake had been blessed by God,” Sister Irene said. “Certainly it was, but...he’d just seemed such a lost soul. I’d hoped we could help.”

The head nun sat across the table from him in the convent’s library. It was cramped, but not uncomfortably so. They were surrounded by shelves of old books lit by the soft glow of the lamp at the center of the table.

Sister Irene had been reading the books along with him and explaining her understanding of the texts. She knew every last detail of the words and their possible interpretations. Usually working with strangers wasn’t his thing, but she reminded him enough of Bobby that it was comforting.

“Dean was right,” Sam said. “You didn’t know.”

“Your brother is an amazing soul.”

“Yeah, he really is,” Sam agreed.

“As are you. He may have survived where few others would, but you have also cared for him with a great devotion that I’ve rarely seen.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He doubted a nun would be commenting on the greatness of his soul if she knew what kind of darkness it might hold. There wasn’t anything he was doing for Dean now that Dean hadn’t already done or wouldn’t do for him.

He pushed the book he’d been studying across the table towards her. “Do you know anything about this one?”

She took a long sip from her tea before setting aside the cup with a gentle clink. She pulled the book closer, adjusting the glasses on the tip of her nose.

“That one? Well, the essence is that which was changed simply changes back. In your brother’s case, it could mean the wings would be reabsorbed by his body, but I’m afraid we can’t know for sure. These are very arcane texts and to be quite honest, I thought they were only myths.”

Sam had to hope it wasn’t because this was the closest thing he could find to a hope of reversing what had been done to Dean. He was just having a hard time getting excited when he could still so vividly remember the sound of his brother screaming. The last thing he wanted was for Dean to have to endure that pain again.

“There was something they put on his skin and made him eat,” Sam said. “I didn’t see it in the original ritual. I think it was some kind of paste. It smelled awful.”

“Oh, yes, I know what you’re talking about. The recipe is in that other book…the green one. It’s said to be for healing. Daniel kept asking about it.”

“He put it on Dean’s shoulders where the wings came out.”

“To heal the wounds after their emergence, I would imagine,” she said. “The texts claim it could cure any non-mortal wound, God willing, but there’s no reward without sacrifice. The pain of the healing would be equal to that of the original injury inflicted.”

Dean had already sacrificed enough, but Dean’s words from when he’d first woken in the hospital bed kept echoing in the back of Sam’s mind. Dean just wanted this all to go away. Sam had seen Dean looking at the healing wounds when his bandages were being changed. It wasn’t that Dean cared what he looked like, but he did care what others saw.

“Do you have the supplies to make it?” Sam asked.

“I’m certain I can manage.” Her hand reached out to grasp his. She squeezed it reassuringly before standing. “I’ll make a large batch and take it to the hospital. His body is still weak. I think it would be best to do the ritual there.”

Sam waited for Sister Irene to leave for the kitchen before leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. He didn’t want to tell Dean that they’d found a way to heal everything in case they hadn’t. Dean would want to do it regardless of the risks, but Sam had to say something to prepare him for the pain.

“I wanna do it.”

Sam jerked up in his chair and shot a look over his shoulder. Dean stood leaning in the doorway to the library. He should’ve known there was no way Dean would’ve actually stayed in bed that long.

Sam quickly composed himself and stood to face his brother. “We’re already working on it. We’ll start tonight and do a little bit and then give you some time to recover before doing some more tomorrow.”

“Fuck that. I’m not gonna spend the next week getting flayed all over again. I’m just gonna take a bath in that crap.”

“Dean, I don’t think you really remember—”

“I survived the first time. I can survive the second. Let’s just do this.”

Nothing he said would change Dean’s mind. It wasn’t only that, but the lightness in Dean’s eyes that made Sam drop his argument. For the first time since they’d arrived, Sam saw something like hope in his brother.

“So if this works,” Sam said. “If everything just goes away...”

“Dude, I still got fluffy wings and look like Cujo’s chew toy. Don’t break out the ‘I told you so’ just yet.”

If Sam had his way, Dean would soon enough have to admit that good could happen along with the bad and, just maybe, there was something larger watching over him. For now, Sam took a couple of the books from the table and joined Dean outside.

They walked side by side down the wide, stone path. Sam had gotten used to shortening his stride to keep pace with his brother’s shuffled steps. He’d always let Dean set the pace anyway.

Dean’s wings fluttered when a shiver ran through his body. The night felt cold even beneath Sam’s flannel. It had been so long since Dean had just been able to put on a shirt, but he was starting to figure out how to wrap the wings around himself.

Pathway lights led them through the darkness under the large, starry sky. Sam jumped as something swept in out of the blackness. It was a large owl diving into the grass, flapping its wings silently as it flew back up into the trees with something locked in its talons.

“Show off,” Dean muttered. “So you’re really sure about the whole flying thing?”

“About you not doing it?” Sam asked. “Yeah, Dean, I’m sure. Considering how much you hate flying, it’s probably for the best.”

“I don’t hate flying,” Dean said. “I hate planes. If I was the one doing the flying, it’d be different.”

“So if you were flying the plane that’d be okay?”

“Uh, no. Dude, if you knew all the things that could go wrong with an engine, you wouldn’t step foot on a plane either. Don’t trust mechanics unless you got all four wheels on the ground.”

The last thing Sam was worried about right now was what could go wrong with an engine, but he was petrified as he opened the hospital door for Dean. He wasn’t sure if he was more worried about something going wrong or the possibility that it might not work at all.

Dean walked over to stand in the most open spot away from the beds where his wings were least likely to hit anything. He could shrug off Sam’s concern and change the subject all he wanted, but Sam could see that Dean was scared, too.

“Maybe we could just do the wings for tonight,” Sam said.

“No. Seriously, man, I want this over with.” Dean stared down at his hands. “I’m not gonna spend all night wondering if this is gonna work.”

“We’ll all be praying for you,” Sister Irene said, as she appeared in the doorway with a steaming stockpot. “And I’ll be right outside with several nurses should anything go wrong.”

Sam hurried over to take the heavy pot from her hands. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean said. “Sorry for all the trouble.”

Sister Irene shook her head and set her hand against Dean’s cheek. She waited until he raised his eyes to meet hers. “You haven’t been nearly the imposition you imagine.” She smiled softly when Dean’s face wrinkled in confusion. “We’ve been blessed by your company,” she clarified. “Your strength has been a lesson for us all.”

“Me? Sister, I haven’t done a damn thing but lie around on my...” Sam shot Dean a glare and Dean choked on his words. “I mean...in bed with you all taking care of me.”

“You’re the essence of humility, child.”

Dean looked to Sam for a translation. Sam hid a wary smile. “It’s a compliment, Dean. Just say thank you.”

“Uh, thank you,” Dean told Sister Irene.

“It’s been our pleasure.” She stopped just outside of the door and looked back to Dean. “You will be all right. God is with you.”

“Yeah, great.”

Dean had looked less awkward stripped down in front of the cult than he did right now. It had always been easier for Dean to take a punch than a compliment.

“So, we doing this, or what?” Dean asked.

“Yeah…I’m going to need to take all your bandages off first.”

Dean nodded and stood with his arms held loosely at his side. Usually, they had the privacy of the cabin, but this wasn’t anything new. Sam had already taken over changing Dean’s bandages as soon as he’d been stable. Dean had freaked out about the nuns doing it and he couldn’t do it himself.

Sam started at Dean’s wrist and worked his way up his arm before carefully peeling the gauze sheets off his back. By now, most the wounds were at least superficially healed over so there was little blood, but they were still red and angry, raised welts and ragged gashes sealed with sutures.

He helped Dean slide off his loose-fitting pants, waiting for him to step out of them after they pooled at his ankles. Dean could get them off okay on his own. It was getting them on that was hard. For that reason, Dean hadn’t been bothering with boxers, which were just more work for him to deal with.

Dean stood looking down at the floor, avoiding Sam’s stare. Sam had seen Dean’s body every day since this had started and maybe he’d missed it because he’d always been comparing his condition to the previous day, and not to what Dean had been. He’d just been thankful Dean was alive at all.

Now, though, he could see just how much weight and muscle mass Dean had lost. Part of it was that he hadn’t been able to walk, but he also hadn’t had an appetite. Sam wasn’t sure if it was the pain or the stress. He knew it wasn’t the food like Dean claimed. They’d been feeding Dean better here than he’d ever eaten before.

Sam removed the last of the bandages from Dean’s rear and the back of his legs. The deep cuts there were a painful reminder why Dean hadn’t been big on sitting for a meal, and Sam doubted standing felt much better.

He took a blanket from one of the beds and laid it out on the floor. If this went like he imagined it would, Dean was going to end up on the floor anyway. They might as well start there so he didn’t hurt himself, at least not anymore than Sam was already going to.

Sam swallowed hard at the thought, but tried to push aside his nerves for Dean. “You ready?”

“Dude, I’m way past ready.”

Dean tensed when Sam walked over with the pan. “It’s just warm, not hot.”

The ritual didn’t call for the paste to be boiling when it was applied or consumed. The group just hadn’t bothered to give it time to cool before pouring it over Dean’s skin the first time. Sister Irene, on the other hand, had prepared it so it wouldn’t burn or chill him.

Sam carefully brushed it over Dean’s skin. Whatever the ingredients, there was something in it that was tacky like glue or thick paint and it stayed fairly well to where Sam applied it. He could tell by the way Dean’s muscles twitched that just the action of brushing it on stung.

When he was nearly finished, Dean kneeled on the blanket at Sam’s feet. Sam crouched behind him and carefully untapped the bandages on his feet. Dean sucked in a sharp breath as Sam pushed the paste into the wounds there. Last, Sam came around to the front and did his wrists, glopping on a pile and smearing it in until Dean looked satisfied.

Sam prayed this would work and that they’d both be strong enough to make it through it. He wiped off his hands and lifted up the book, opening it to the ritual page. After taking in a deep breath, he began to read.

Only a few sentences in, Dean’s back arched. He fell forward onto his hands and knees and tried to grip the blanket beneath him. He did manage to get it into his mouth, biting down hard. His eyes clenched closed and his face twisted.

His wings beat in protest and the feathers began to rain down in a shower of white. The larger feathers fell to the floor while the down fluttered about the air, swirling around them.

By the time the skin beneath was exposed, the bones were already collapsing in on themselves. Dean’s screams were muffled by the blanket in his mouth, but the pain echoed loud and clear from the stone walls. The bones folded down, withering until they disappeared, sealed again beneath Dean’s skin.

He collapsed onto his side not long before Sam read the last word. Sam dropped the book, letting it slam to the floor, and fell to his knees beside Dean.

His brother curled into a ball as his muscles and skins continued to shift and contract. The nearly bone deep scars knitted together in seconds, no doubt sending shockwaves through his nerves. The blanket had fallen from his mouth and his cries were no longer muted, tearing at Sam, who could only watch helplessly.

Even after the wounds were gone, Dean continued to shake. His breaths came in quick gasps.

Sam pulled the blanket around him while Dean rode out the residual pain and fought through the exhaustion. Dean’s hands clutched Sam tightly enough that he tentatively hoped Dean had regained full control over them.

Slowly Dean sat up, but still rested back against Sam for support. He flexed his fingers and looked at his arms. The gaping wounds in his wrists and the gashes were gone.

Sam let the blanket fall down. He used it to wipe away a smear of the putty. Beneath it, Dean’s back was as smooth as it had been at the lake. Sam rubbed his hand over the skin, assuring himself it was real. A sharp jolt of an elbow buried itself into his ribs.

“Dude, get your hands off my ass,” Dean said.

His voice was still weak, but nothing like it had been. Now it was the kind of weary he’d heard from Dean countless times before, one that simple things like sleep and food could fix. Dean stretched and reached over his shoulder to feel his back.

“It’s all gone,” Sam confirmed. “So can I say I told you so now?”

“Shut up.”

Dean reached back to swat him, thunking him weakly on the head. He collapsed back against him while still struggling to catch his breath. Sam chocked back a grateful sob and pulled the blanket up over Dean’s shivering shoulders. He could finally let himself breathe again.

~~~

Dean chugged back a beer as he sat on top of the picnic table. His boot tapped to the rhythm of the song that had been playing on the radio before they’d arrived at the campground. He flexed his fingers around the neck of the beer, chasing the sweat droplets that ran down the bottle, just because he could.

“I’m gonna get me some twins,” Dean said.

Sam almost choked on his granola. “You realize when most people say that they’re talking about adoption?”

“Dude, don’t act like you don’t know. I was the one who taught you about the birds and the bees.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. The worst part was I actually believed half of what you said.”

Dean snickered. “Yeah, that lollipop bit was awesome.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“You love me.” Dean snapped his fingers. “Get me another hotdog.”

Sam laughed at him and turned back to their campfire. “I don’t love you that much. Get it yourself.”

“I don’t wanna, but I do want that bag of marshmallows.”

Dean ducked to the side as Sam heaved the giant marshmallow bag at him. He easily caught it and ripped it open. With a smirk he popped one of the squishy delights into his mouth and then another. His cheeks were bulging by the time Sam turned around to look at him.

“If after everything, you end up choking...”

“I ain’t gonna choke,” Dean mumbled around the mashed up marshmallows. “But you are gonna roast me some of these.”

Dean tossed the bag back down to Sam, who made a show of rolling his eyes before snatching up a stick and impaling two of the marshmallows on it. Dean idly ran his fingers over his wrist before lying back over the table to stare up at the stars and the branches of the pines that bobbed from the rising heat of the fire.

“Why don’t you come down here and roast these yourself?” Sam asked.

“’Cause you’ll do it for me and it’s a million degrees next to that fire. Besides, I’m the miracle boy, remember?”

“Yeah, and remind me why I thought it was a good idea to tell you that.”

Dean smirked as he folded his hands behind his head and listened to the crackling of the fire. He craned his neck so he could watch Sam meticulously browning the marshmallows and doing a sorry ass job of hiding his smile. 

Sam had been right. Taking some time off hadn’t been such a bad idea. Within a week he’d be going stir crazy and begging for a hunt, but for tonight it was nice. It also wasn’t the only thing Sam might have been right about. 

They weren’t necessarily in this alone. Dean wasn't sure how far he was willing to take that thought. He didn't have an explanation for why he was still alive and he didn't believe in coincidences, but he also didn't give a crap about anything beyond this campsite.

Maybe for Sam, this had all proven that they had something bigger watching out for them. For Dean, it had only reaffirmed what he'd already known. As long as he had Sam at his side, it didn't matter what else was out there.


End file.
